Parenting is all the things. It's watching your children and wondering how on earth you got so lucky, and it's counting down the hours until they get picked up for a playdate. The highs and lows come thick and fast, and no feeling ever has mutual exclusivity.
This week saw the end of our nine and a half weeks of holiday fun. There were moments that were reminiscent of lockdown (and you'll find out why in next week's post), and I don't think I've ever been in a swimming pool as much without actually swimming. Lifeguard was more the vibe as Josh has the confidence of Phelps, but lacks the ability to surface. He can however have a conversation with you above water, continue it submerged and proceed as if there has been no interruption once he's back up. Is there an Olympic sport in that?
By happy coincidence we finally sorted out his hearing aid to be fitted the day before school went back. It's called a Baha system that sits on a headband (which it seems is a fashion choice for sports pros) with the small processor nestled behind his left ear. This little bit of kit is not covered on health insurance so cost us nearly $5000 (gasp, yes we did too). As my regular readers know we are so fortunate to have excellent health care coverage here and his access to this is a large benefit of living in the US. But, come on insurance companies, pediatric hearing loss should be covered!
We all went to the appointment as it's well known in our house that I can't seem to connect any devices to Bluetooth, so I needed tech back-up from my seven-year-old.
When the device was up and running, his little face was alive in wonder. He was hearing the background noises, probably for the first time, things we've learnt to ignore. The printer hum, or the air-conditioning. The good news is, he likes it and he wears it 90% of the time.
I am not alone in shedding tears at every back-to-school morning. It's a charged atmosphere as your children take that next step forward, another year older, another milestone you're proud of. But there is an added level of anxiety that rare parenting brings when your child with additional needs goes through those gates.
When your baby lies on the mat and eats their feet, us mums like to check in and chat about who is nearly rolling over, who grabbed for a block today. Our experience was always that Josh was just that little bit behind, that little bit smaller. But as the years have gone on, the gaps begin to widen.
Last year he was in TK, it's like Reception class for my friends in the UK. It's playing and fun and the early fundamentals of class work. When the class is sticking colored paper to an empty toilet roll, or listening to a story there are not many ways in which Josh is different to his classmates.
But this will change academically, and socially. He isn't quite ready to grasp the social cues of a conversation or understand the dynamic of asking and answering questions. He will find his way, he's the most joyous and happy person I know, but it still hurts that he will need to grow the resiliency required to exist within those friendship groups, where I know rejection happens. Physically he is trying so hard to write his name, and, again, he will get there but his little fingers that are stiffening make it harder for him.
As I have discussed before, it is so hard to watch someone you love go through all of this. And what touches your heart in no other way I can describe, is their ability to do all this with an acceptance that can sometimes nearly break you. It is their normal.
As he walked through the gates, I watched his teachers fist pump him, he popped his bag on the peg outside the classroom door like a pro. He turned and waved to us, and the tears rushed down my face.
Tears of love, of hope, of vulnerability, of worrying that this year is the year the gaps get too wide for mainstream education. Tears of pride, as our one in a million boy gets to walk himself in, to experience school, to be independent. Tears that were the same as the mum's next to me, that our little people are getting bigger, are growing up, and what seems like five minutes ago, we existed in a baby and mother space where we couldn't physically be without each other.
Parenting is all the things, and rare parenting weaves itself into the deepest parts of your heart and requires an armor that is sometimes so heavy all you can do is standstill.
We picked him up a few hours later, the hearing aid was still on, and he wore it with his new crown in celebration of his first day. I asked him how it had gone.
He said, "My classroom is so beautiful."
So are you my darling boy, in every possible way.