Here I sit, on the eve of Simon’s third birthday.
Three years ago today, I was sweltering away in Southern California, in triple degree heat without air conditioning, at 41 weeks pregnant. I was valiantly, and futilely, doing squats and other nifty things with my exercise ball in the hopes of getting labor started and avoiding my scheduled c-section in the morning. It was not to be, and at 8:05 on September 13, 2012, Simon was pulled screaming into the world.
It’s really kind of trippy thinking back on it. All the plans I had hoped for him have been changed and there’s a grieving that goes along with that. It’s getting easier, but I don’t know if it will ever go away. Things are just so different from what I expected them to be.
We decided to get Simon a trampoline for his big gift, but I decided last-minute that I wanted him to have other presents to actually open. I don’t know why I bother, since he really doesn’t get birthdays yet. Given his current obsession with letters and the fact that we have lost the ‘C’ from his letter puzzle, I got him a new puzzle and also some magnetic letters for the fridge. Then, later, I browsed through another toy section in the hopes of finding something else for him. And I started to cry. Because here were all these really cool toys that I would love him to play with, but I know, I just know that all he would do would be line the pieces up in a row and ignore everything else. He doesn’t really have any interests, except for letters, bubbles, and lining shit up. I ended up getting him some lame baby toy giraffe thing that you put blocks in. He’s not going to like it and it’ll end up being more of Georgie’s toy. Later, as we were outside in the yard and he kept asking me to blow bubbles (yes, asking!), then it dawned on me that I should get him bubble toys, so off I went and got him one of those kitschy bubble lawn mowers. His (now ex) OT wants him pushing things anyway, so this will do double duty, I hope.
So, anyway, I cried, right there in the toy department of Fred Meyer. Cried because I can’t even going shopping for my boy without hitting a wall. I remember when Eleanor was a baby, just a month or two old, and me breaking down in Babies R Us, crying “but I don’t know what she wants!” while trying to pick out a rattle for her. It was kind of like that, but for a three-year-old. I just don’t know what he wants.
I would give anything, anything, for just 15 minutes inside his head to know what’s going on in there.
I wish I could buy presents for him without thinking of his therapy needs.
Simon had his last Early Intervention therapy sessions this week. We’ll still be seeing his OT because she is also Georgie’s therapist, but we won’t be seeing his SLP anymore. And that’s always sad, saying goodbye to someone who has been a part of your world for nearly a year. It’s also somewhat anxiety provoking for me because, for right now, Simon will no longer be getting private speech or OT. He is on all available waiting lists, but we’re on our own for now. (I kick myself for not having the foresight to get him on those lists months ago, but it simply never occurred to me to do it. I knew ABA meant waitlists, but it never occurred to me that speech and OT would mean waiting, too. Then again, none of therapists or our Family Resource Coordinator suggested it us, either.)
On Monday, Simon starts at the Developmental Preschool. He’ll be there 4 days a week for 2-1/2 hours, with the possibility of getting into the extended day program for ASD kids in a month or so. I am absolutely a nervous wreck. I worry that he’ll cry and scream the whole time. I worry that he’ll somehow get out of the school and get lost or killed. I worry that he’ll be lonely, since it’s not a 1:1 program like his last class was. I worry that he won’t ever make any friends. I just worry.
I worry a lot.
So different from what I was expecting three years ago.