It is not often that I am rendered speechless.
I’ve been walking around for a week, trying to figure out the articulation to go with this photograph.
Last Wednesday, The Bozark and I, attended Ethan’s IEP Meeting at his local special needs preschool.
I really look forward to these meetings with the same enthusiasm as a root canal.
I have droned on and on about IEP’s (Individualized Educational Program) in the past. They are simply hard. A deficit based meeting where a group of people try to come together to create goals for the forthcoming year. Educational based goals, that then become a contract that the school district is supposed to honor.
For me with Ethan, in the beginning I was quite adamant about how many minutes he would spend with a speech therapist, to how often his wheelchair would be adjusted. I wanted hours of physical therapy and appointments with all kinds of specialists. I wanted him to have all of the interventions. I mean, the first three years of his life were about interventions and ideas to help fix, well, some would argue about the word “fix” but, help Ethan be as successful as possible.
When the world fell in, and Ethan was absolutely unable to attend school, my whole idea of what school meant for him, changed. Significantly.
The last two years have been far more of a lesson for me than Ethan. I’ve learned that my success scale was really off course for him. That my definition of improvements and milestones, were unrealistic. Those of you who have been with me from the beginning have seen the dawning of this reality and know—these have not been easy lessons for me.
Goals changing and taking form. From my original ones of, I want Ethan to walk, talk, communicate, eat, and not have issues with heat and cold. Which of course are all quite laughable now.
Now we talk about cause and effect and does Ethan know his name, and react to it, when it is spoken. Now the driving force behind our efforts is to develop some sort of primitive communication technique that helps us define even the simplest of choices.
Now, I just want him to be able to survive school and adapt to a slight change in his environment. My expectations have changed. My definition of success has changed. My ability to celebrate the tiniest of milestones has improved ten-fold.
We are all different.
So back to the picture and the IEP. I was so taken aback, to see Ethan smiling at school. Trust me, with out proof, I never would have believed it. Beyond just smiling. Ethan was interacting. The other children in the class, were building block towers on the tray, laying across Ethan’s legs. And then when it was time, Ethan’s assignment was to knock them down. He would laugh and giggle and knock the towers down, and the kids. Look at their faces. They are smiling and laughing. Not an ounce of nervousness, not a whisper of fear.
I am overjoyed. Amazed. Dazed. (don’t let me break into Neil Diamond song now).
I just look at this picture, and with it, springs forth hope.
Oh hope. I think I remember you. Hope. Like dragging yourself through the longest darkest winter, walking down the path one day and seeing that bright yellow crocus that has beaten the odds, and come through the cold season, to bring us color and mark our days with floral scents and a beauty that is so starkly different from the frozen, dull winter.
Hope, the precious commodity that yanks me out of bed in the morning, feeds my soul with the confirming affirmation of my Heavenly Father’s existence, and his beautiful awareness of me.
And I can’t help but smile.
Sheer joy. Just look at his face.
“You did the right thing this time, Mom & Dad. Keep pushing”
