Ethan Turns a Corner

Who can resist this
smile?!

I have a list of on-going potential blog posts, and one of them was going to be called, “What I Miss the Most.” It was going to talk about all of the things I see my friends beautiful babies doing that I felt I was missing out on. What kinds of things you may ask?

Most things centralized around connecting and the necessity of engagement. The physical delays we had made peace with and we were working through. But I was not prepared for the emotional disconnection. Ethan wouldn’t make eye contact, he wouldn’t smile or reach for us, he wouldn’t respond to his name, he wouldn’t repeat sounds, or high five, or blow a kiss, or a reach for his nose. He wouldn’t hand toys back and forth, or hand us a book or really engage us in any other activity other than feeding him. He wasn’t interested in toys out of his reach, or really even seem to understand that all he had to do was roll, crawl, reach, etc. He was content alone in his small, precise world. He was so Zen he was almost transcendent.

And I was sad. Terry and I began to fear that there was more to this saga. Maybe Ethan had Autism. Maybe he was more cognitively delayed than we had otherwise believed.  But I kept repeating the games over and over. I kept pointing to my nose, offering my hand in high five, showing him how to get that which was out of his reach; we kept reading him books, singing him songs, and chatting away with him. We started him in music class and signed up for another day of physical therapy every week. 

The director of our physical therapist office gave us an analogy – she said kids are like water pumps. You pump, and pump, and pump and nothing seems to be happening. But behind the scenes, the water is rising and rising. Then, all of a sudden, it comes rushing out! Well, I’m happy to report Ethan’s cup runneth over!

It was literally like someone walked passed him and said, “Hey, someone forgot to the flip this kid's “On”

Ethan moving and grooving
in Physical Therapy

switch.” He went from being some Buddhist monk to a playful little boy. He suddenly did everything all at once – he high-fived and reached for my nose. He smiled and reached for Terry and I. He would pass toys back and forth, even rolling a back and forth to me. He would repeat some sounds (not a lot… but some!). He started getting very particular about games he wanted to play or toys he wanted to play with. He started walking in his walker and having a clear sense of where he wanted to go. He began exploring – opening and closing cabinet doors, pulling towels from racks, completely torturing the dog by following him around in his obnoxious car-shaped walker.  Don’t get me wrong, the kid is still far more content and Zen than just about any other baby I know – but now he’s scrupulous, curious and animated… 

I was right here all
along, Mom!

It’s like a giant clamp just released itself from my heart. It’s like I can finally breathe.  My son is in there. And I can see he’s been in there and now he’s forcing this giant personality of his out. 

So this is a message not just for parents of special needs kids, but all parents. Keep priming the pump. Repetition. Persistence. Patience. Love...   Rinse, lather, repeat…