Rocking my baby
Tonight something hit me. I don't know if it is related to exhaustion, a long week, the gloomy weather, or just one of those road blocks, but I feel like right now pessimism is overtaking the optimism. I could feel the waves occurring throughout the day, but tonight at bedtime, it won. Hunter had a hard time going to sleep, and he asked me to rock him after coming out of his room multiple times. Initially, I thought about my ABA principles, which unfortunately seem to come first, and I should have just walked him back in, not said a word, and left. But tonight I couldn't do that. Not only did HE need me to rock him, to calm him, and get him ready to sleep, but I needed to rock him. I couldn't help but recall holding him as a little baby...you are singing those sweet lullabies, whispering in their ears, thinking about the future and living out all of your dreams and aspirations for your child.
Until you get that diagnosis and your naive, protected little bubble is burst.
I held him so tight in his rocker and just prayed. Prayed that a day would come when the researchers would win the Nobel Prize for finding a cure. Prayed that the day would come when my child would not have to struggle. Prayed for that day when I could show him all of these blog entries and tell him,
"You did it."
"You beat Autism."
I now know why so many parents fall into the experimental therapies, the special diets, the non-research based treatments. When you are holding your child and their sweet little face looks up at you with that amazing smile, you vow right then and there to do anything in your power to help them. To make it right. To bring them back.
I took out Hunter's baby book after he finally fell asleep and tried to smile through all of the pictures. I scrapbooked each of our children throughout their first year, and maintained a daily calendar with every single milestone. Seriously. Every scoot, every sign, every new food tried, object permanence, first time he gave kisses, every visitor, every new tooth...the list goes on. And each month was accompanied by pictures of a child with real smiles, real eye contact, and really proud parents.
The proud parents are still in the monthly pictures. But somewhere around 17 months, PANDAS took some of those natural smiles and eye gazes from us.
This child was not born with an Autism Spectrum Disorder. However, now he is forced to live with one. And the saddest part of it all is that there is no easy, quick fix. No big band-aid, my son.
So in order to remember where we started, I will rock my almost five-year-old. I know in my heart that I am still holding the same precious child that I did four years ago. Even if I follow every guideline, every principle that my therapists have taught us, every recommendation, I will falter each time when he asks me to rock him.
Because there is no better feeling than rocking your baby, regardless of their age.
And I'm perfectly OK with it.
Until you get that diagnosis and your naive, protected little bubble is burst.
I held him so tight in his rocker and just prayed. Prayed that a day would come when the researchers would win the Nobel Prize for finding a cure. Prayed that the day would come when my child would not have to struggle. Prayed for that day when I could show him all of these blog entries and tell him,
"You did it."
"You beat Autism."
I now know why so many parents fall into the experimental therapies, the special diets, the non-research based treatments. When you are holding your child and their sweet little face looks up at you with that amazing smile, you vow right then and there to do anything in your power to help them. To make it right. To bring them back.
The proud parents are still in the monthly pictures. But somewhere around 17 months, PANDAS took some of those natural smiles and eye gazes from us.
This child was not born with an Autism Spectrum Disorder. However, now he is forced to live with one. And the saddest part of it all is that there is no easy, quick fix. No big band-aid, my son.
So in order to remember where we started, I will rock my almost five-year-old. I know in my heart that I am still holding the same precious child that I did four years ago. Even if I follow every guideline, every principle that my therapists have taught us, every recommendation, I will falter each time when he asks me to rock him.
Because there is no better feeling than rocking your baby, regardless of their age.
And I'm perfectly OK with it.
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