Then this past summer I wrote a little letter to my soon to be graduating six year old. I shared the letter with my sister, who loved what I had written so much she shared it with a friend of hers. That friend happens to run a small local news paper in our town and she loved it so much she wanted to publish the letter. Now granted I had written for the paper at least two times prior to this, but by this point their had been a good five year's since my last published article.
The letter was so well received that the editor offered me a bi-weekly space in the paper. I suddenly discovered that I had more in me to write. That I was by no means ready to stop there. A flood gate of words and stories bursting to be told. And as the blog progresses I will share my other articles!
Here is the article that launched a thousand words as it ran:
On Wednesday, my oldest son will graduate kindergarten, like countless five year olds before him and after him. In the grand scheme of things, its really not that big of a deal. Except for me it is. At some point in the evening, I'll probably sob my face off. The good kind of sob where mascara will smear down my face and snot...yeah, they'll probably be a little of that too. I thought maybe I should explain why…
My letter to Brady:
I was 21 when I had you. I'd like to say that I was a really mature 21, but, if I’m being honest, I wasn't. I barely knew how to take care of myself. I still called my mama to ask her how to wash clothes...but there you were. Perfect, completely perfect! We learned a lot that first year, you and me. Your milestones were a little more monumental I suppose. But, when you turned one, your pediatrician suggested we have your hearing tested. You see, you didn't always want to give me or your dad the time of day. I figured you were just suborn (a trait that sort of runs in the family.) So we had your hearing tested; it was fine. See, stubborn! A man of few words. You would speak when you felt darn good and ready and, when you did, the words would be profound! I mean every mom thinks that, right?
Your doctor wasn't satisfied. And in those moments before falling asleep each night, my head would race with the what ifs and the why. So we had you tested. A super nice lady came in with her toys and books, and you played, and she wrote, and I worried. A few weeks later we heard back from that nice lady. She used words like delays and therapy. I listened, sort of. All the while, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking "My god, I broke him..." I think that night I cried so hard I couldn't breathe. The next few years were filled with therapist and doctor’s visits. Us trying to crack that shell of your’s.
Three was a big year for you. You started school (I cried that day. I took exactly three steps out of the door, after kissing you goodbye, and cried in the hall way.) You got a new baby brother, which coincided with two of your first clearly spoken words, "mine" and "Sesh" (your version of Seth.) It was also the year we finally got an answer on that beautiful little mystery that was your mind. Autism. You were Autistic...on the spectrum. But we were assured that you were " super high functioning." Well of course you were! I mean there you were in my arms, completely awesome! Actually, you probably had a finger up your nose, but we'll overlook that.
So here we are now, in a moment that just a few short years ago we didn't know would be possible. You've grown leaps and bounds and blown away our expectations. When those curtains open on the stage, my throat will probably close up. When I hear your name called to get your kindergarten graduation diploma, my eyes will sting with tears and a few might escape. I'll save the snot cry for later as not to embarrass you. In my mind, I'll imagine what you'll look like in 12 years (I hope only 12...) when you walk across the stage again for a different type of diploma. You rock little man!
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