Parenthood

My dear, dear son. My beemish boy. My second born. I feel so much fear and trepidation for what lies ahead. But I believe in your innocence, not because I'm a foolish, doting mother who has little knowledge of the world, but because I am a shrewd and accurate judge of character. I have fought for you since before you were a cluster of cells yet to implant in the wall of my uterus. It was so arduous a journey to bring you into this world. In the fifteen months it took to conceive you there were at least two joyful possible positives, only to be shown otherwise when my period arrived right on schedule. Carrying you resulted in borderline gestational diabetes for me, a never ending case of heartburn,  a frightening amount of fluid weight gain, months of nausea, and an angry sciatic nerve that caused me to drag my right foot along during the third trimester. And then you didn't want to come out of your warm, fluid sanctum. So they broke my water. Then administered pitocin. I walked and sat, walked and sat. But regular, productive labor was not to be. So all nine pounds, two ounces of you were delivered just before midnight on your namesake day by Cesarean section . Having a second child shows a parent firsthand the meaning of the word individual. We assumed your quirky ways were simply that, you expressing your personal individualism. But as you grew I became concerned about your slowness to speak even though it was obvious how bright you were doing simple math with the Cheerios on the high chair tray. You sometimes flapped your hands oddly and would become lost in thought while examining a bit of lint on the carpet or a small toy in your hands. You were overly sensitive to anything that touched your skin. As a toddler you still startled at loud noises and had difficulty sleeping. You were oddly specific about the clothing you preferred to wear and how you got comfortable to sleep. You were independent and fearless in a way that terrified me. Twice you escaped the safety of the house and were running down the street before I knew you were gone. When it came time to go to kindergarten you were already reading at a second grade level though you denied knowing how to read. I would hear you softly reading traffic and business signs and billboards from your carseat behind me. School was a struggle. I fought for you and became your advocate against a school system that preferred to drug you rather than help you learn. The diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome* came toward the end of third grade. But even with an Individualized Education Plan it was still difficult. Some wonderful teachers got it and helped you so much. Others were punitive toward you because they were either lazy or indifferent. Over the years I have watched you mature out of asocial behaviors and helped you learn exit strategies from situations that were stressful. It broke my heart how you were bullied by your peers. And even though you were sometimes bigger than your tormentors, you rarely returned the aggression that was foisted upon you. You have remained a gentle, kind, intelligent, highly empathetic human. I am so proud of the young adult you have grown into. The typical benchmarks associated with any age were often achieved later, but always successfully. Throughout your life I have done my best to push your envelope just enough to make you a little uncomfortable and thus help you learn. Now that trouble has arrived that could affect the rest of your life in a seriously negative way, I promise to not abandon you. You have worked harder than most to arrive where you are. Once again I will fight for you. Not only because you are my son, but because you are a good human. And there are far too few of you on this Earth. I love you so much. You are an innocent at heart. And I have your back.
    
*Now called mild autism.