When you’re the parent of a child with special needs, the Moments sneak up on you. I’m talking about the “capital M- moments,” those milestones of beautiful things that are usually fairly predictable— even forgettable and routine— for those mothers who only have neurotypical children. When your child doesn’t follow the charted curve in growth, or cognitive developmental, or physical skills, you learn that you’re off grid, that no real guidebook exists to soothe those middle of the night anxieties. Is he ok? Is this appropriate? Should I be worried? become moot points. You adjust to the day to day of what is, and swim in your own shallow water that feels, most days, very deep indeed.
And then, one day, out of the blue, a Moment:
“Hey! Hey! I got a friend. I play with him. He has a Woody. Yeah, we’re friends.”
Phin will be fourteen in three weeks. Fourteen. It’s a strange concept, because it has no anchor in the reality we know as parents of teenagers. Fourteen is an age of leaps and bounds, of growth spurts that leave kids in high waters a month after you’ve purchased them new jeans, of making stunning academic connections, of discovering spiritual truths that were previously hidden in plain view. But Phin is not going to be fourteen in that way, just as he was not twelve in any recognizable fashion, or ten, or eight. His chronological age is a fact unmoored, barely registering in any real, meaningful way.
Instead, on his best days, he is something like a newly minted six year-old. He can follow simple instructions, and he remembers (usually) how to turn off the water from the filter after he fills his own cup. He takes everything and everyone exactly at face value— a terrifying prospect. He adores Buzz and Woody, and will play the same scenes from Toy Story on a loop in his bedroom for hours on end if left to his own devices. He recently made it all the way to lesson 24 in 100 EZ before having to circle back to lesson 8 due to lost skills. He likes drawing, and robots, and Christmas lights, and coats with fuzzy or silky linings.
Of course, like everyone, Phin is so much more than a sum of all his parts. To us, who see him in context day in and day out, his age is nothing. He’s just Phin. No more, no less. We know what to expect, and we enjoy him for exactly who he is. And you know, he’s steady. Phin is rarely surprising or shocking. He’s not given to passion in any form (intense joy or sadness, anger or happiness). He is a firm marker of place in our family, a constant that we count on to be calm and quiet and present, always.
And then, a Milestone.
This fall, Phin joined us for the first time in our CC community. I’ve shared in the past about our concerns about folding him into the mix of a busy, distraction-heavy day spent bouncing from room to room. After multiple conferences with our director, we settled on a plan that has been a perfect fit for Phin, his needs, and a healthy classroom environment. It’s been a delight to help him prepare for presentations and get feedback from his tutor that he was able to stand in front of the other students and share. It’s been a joy to my heart to hear him recount things that he’s heard, or what he did in hands-on science. There was only one piece missing…
“Hey! Hey! I got a friend. I play with him. He has a Woody. Yeah, we’re friends.”
After Essentials, as I gathered my three youngest from the afternoon care area, Phin ran into my arms with his face plastered in a grin. He could barely contain himself. Phin. The boy with very few emotions. The boy who never, ever swings to wild happiness or grief.
Simon filled me in on the details, the who and the what. But Phin’s face told me everything I needed to know. He’s made a friend. An actual friend of his own, on his own.
A Milestone.
I’m grateful to our CC community. I’m grateful to the tutor who has molded her plans around having a little boy who needs extra guidance in her class. I’m grateful for the adults who have gone out of their way to engage Phin, even knowing that they may never get a response back. I’m grateful for the moms who have taken the time to explain Phin’s nuances and norms to their own children, and have encouraged them to meet him where he is. I’m grateful for the kids who have accepted my sweet son for who he is, without missing a beat, and have embraced him in their play even when he’s been “different.”
The next few years with Phin will hold many challenges. I’m not ignoring the levity of what lies ahead. But somehow, the road suddenly seems lit a bit more clearly knowing that he has forged a connection with a friend… and that we have our own small army of friends walking with us.