"I Don't Know"

The "clinical therapies" waiting room where I spend an hour each week waiting during Little Bug's physical therapy is a melting pot for children and families with some sort of need. I see families and children who navigate wheel chairs and feeding tubes.  I see families and children who are trying to navigate therapy waters in a language they don't speak (or sign).  I see families and children who have behavioral challenges and needs.

And I feel very at home here.  Because in this waiting room, although we all have very different reasons for being here, we all want the same thing for our kids.  To be accepted.  To not be judged when our children start twitching and shrieking at the crayon table or run up to you and throw a book at your head.  To have our children smiled at instead of stared at, even in the moments when you can't help but stare.  To have a stranger strike up a conversation and keep it going even when our children cannot or will not.  To have other children see a friend instead of a wheelchair, leg brace, inability to socially interact, or physical deformity.

In an odd way, I love this hour of my week.  Even though I rarely talk to anyone else, it makes me feel less alone as a mom and gives me hope for a community for my son that I sincerely hope he will always feel comfortable in as he grows up and his needs evolve.

But yesterday I also saw the bleak truth of growing up in this waiting room.  And I pretended to be reading something very sad on my phone as tears silently streamed down my face.

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the waiting room.  A family who spoke ASL sat in one corner, and Little Bro was engrossed in the iPad.  From out of the practice rooms a boy about 7 or 8 years old came shuffling out, tears in his eyes and his face contorted in fear and sadness.  A man who later called himself "Pops" came behind him, allowing the young boy to navigate them to some chairs across from me.  There they sat in silence for a few minutes before Pops tried to sooth the boy.

The blow-by-blow isn't important (but will forever be etched in my mind), but basically this little boy had just been told that he needed to take medication for his attention needs.  I have no doubt this information was delivered age-appropriately and compassionately, but all this little boy heard was that "something was wrong" with him.

And it hurt.  Not anger.  Hurt.

Pops, bless him, gave me some good lessons on how to talk to a pre-teen boy in pain.  When the boy chose to sit across the couch from him inching away with each word Pops uttered, Pops told him that was okay if it made it easier to talk.  When the boy didn't seem to want to say anything, Pops calmly and encouragingly told him how smart and kind and fun he was, using loving examples. He just needed a little help talking tests, that's all.  The little boy's eyes filled with tears and buried his face in his hands.

"Does this feel like a big deal to you?" Pops asked softly.
"I don't know," the little boy admitted before dissolving into tears.

That's when I lost it, for the record. 

As Little Bug starts maturing and getting ready for big time school, I have started preparing for how to support him emotionally, not just clinically.  The emotions he might feel as he gets older and more aware of his challenges (guilt, anger, fear, embarrassment, rejection) literally keep me up at night with pains in my chest.  To hear my deepest fears whispered by this confused little boy broke me.  How can little ones be expected to understand just how unfair life can be or just how different and wonderful they are?  How can I protect my Little Bug from the moments when he is told by strangers that he is different and needs help?  How can I help him hear anything other than "something is wrong" with me in his head?

I don't actually have the answers.  I don't know.  And that sucks.