Sorry, sorry. Forgive the pun, but I needed a few hours to process everything. I was extremely cheerful for about 10 minutes after the therapists left this morning, but after describing the evaluation to a couple friends I realized that oh my God, I really just want to go to bed for days.
(And Girl Scout cookies. I really, really want some Girl Scout cookies.)
The evaluation went well, in that Noah easily qualified for weekly occupational therapy sessions for oral and gross motor skills and a host of sensory-processing issues.
It didn't go well, in that Noah like, easily qualified. For a lot more than I was expecting, honestly.
Every question, every answer, every knowing "mmm-hmmm" rattled me more and more, since I would describe what I thought was something fairly innocent -- something that makes Noah so unique and special -- and they would mark another symptom off the SPD checklist. He's cautious and thoughtful and would rather sit and read books than dive-bomb off the couch. Well, that's probably because Noah is not processing his responses to physical movement properly.
He toe-walked the entire time...something we thought he'd more or less outgrown...and at one point he wobbled and fell over while standing completely still. His speech therapist said she's seen him do that before. I bit my lip and tried not to cry, because my God, I never noticed.
I've preached and clucked that sometimes, the single best thing you can do for your child is admit that something is wrong. Today I had to put their checklist where my mouth is, and I didn't like it.
I'd been thinking about this comment by zdoodlebub all weekend:
Nothing in the future will ever come as close to all the emotions and fears you had the first time someone confirmed that, yes, there may in fact be something wrong with your perfect child. You are doing the work and thankfully you are blessed with professionals who are on task and proactive. Emotionally, however - it's all downhill from here. That mommy-vulnerability blister is now a callus. It may act up when you have to wear new shoes, but not for long.
So true. Ridiculously true.
The first time around, with the speech delay, was terrifying. It was huge. It was a wig-out of spectacular proportions.
This time I'm just sort of...cranky. Skeptical. Done. Worried about how I'll get all my writing deadlines done with two weekly therapy sessions.
Worried that there's something else I'm missing. Something that's just waiting to march into my house, clipboard in hand, and ask me where the hell I've been, what with my kid walking into walls and climbing down stairs with a two-handed, white-knuckled death-grip on the railing.
There's no doubt in mind that if I ever needed to throw myself into oncoming traffic in order to save Noah, I would. Without hesitation.
In fact, the only part of that imaginary scenario that makes me anxious is the fear that I wouldn't be able to get my body in front of that car fast enough.