scribblechic

Today, in a wonderfully open conversation with a high school psychologist, I was asked when I first knew that something was wrong with my now fifteen year old son.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t.

Other’s asked me questions, a few raised concerns, but I was never worried. So many of the behaviors that were red flags to strangers, were my only experience of normal.

It wasn’t until the summer between Kindergarten and First Grade that my husband and I understood there was an explanation for some of the inconsistencies between our son and his peers. We assimilated the new information into our language, recognizing our son would need to master certain challenges to better navigate his educational experience successfully, but we never saw our son with a lens other than love.

I didn’t know ten years ago that something was wrong. All these years later I still think it is more likely that well-intentioned adults are misguided in their assumptions than my son is in his behavior.

The young man who sometimes struggles with spontaneous dancing and poorly timed sarcasm, who rushes to share his ideas and forgets to plan ahead is also empathetic and loyal; he is fearless and uninhibited in his curiosity and passion.

Someone once told me something was wrong. Years after my son’s diagnosis I know that the greater wrong would be to remake a child into someone else’s idea of normal.

What did I know, when?

I know that if we speak of differences as problems, trouble, something to be fixed or devalued we lose sight of the complicated blessings of imperfect experiences. From the beginning I knew my son only as himself, someone who makes my days better for the differences that are our normal.

I think it is important to note that in response to my answer the school psychologist not only respected my perspective, but agreed. This mindset of appreciation over tolerance is essential, in my opinion, to valuing differences as abilities over handicaps. 

Tagged: Musings, Son, Special Needs