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I had high aspirations fifteen years ago when I found out I was pregnant. I imagined creating a life much like the glossy families I saw in parenting magazines: beautifully dressed, highly organized, and always smiling. I ate a healthy diet, exercised, and read and sang to my unborn son every day. Indigo developed appropriately as the months passed and my belly grew. I didn't imagine parenthood to be complete perfection; my own childhood taught me better than that.
Still, I was not prepared for the lonely education ahead.
I never imagined sitting on the sidelines at a soccer game separate from the other parents because "my kid" didn't follow the rules. I never imagined every person in my life telling me I was a bad parent when Indigo had his tantrums. I never imagined switching daycares every few months because none of them could handle my child's high energy levels and social deficits. I was not prepared for the struggles that accompany raising a child with nonverbal learning disability (NLD). Having a different child, to me, meant having the artsy kid or extreme sports kid... or even the Albert Einstein kid. Different was not supposed to mean the kid no one wants to invite to birthday parties.
What do you do when your child is nothing like those perfect little children wrapped neatly inside glossy pages; is nothing like those well-groomed kids who fit inside a 27-inch television screen that everyone loves? What do you do when you're faced with raising a child with special needs?
Well first, I cried. And cried and cried. Then, I put on the thickest skin I could find and went out to fight the world for Indigo. It gets easier and harder as the years go by. Indigo masters one thing but forgets another.
Raising a child with NLD is very much like playing a never-ending Chutes and Ladders game. We climb the rings of success but often land on the slides...
and whoops! Down we go.
No one told me every day is going to be different. One day, Indigo memorizes the route from English class to the lunchroom. The second, he forgets how to tie his shoelaces. Next, he obsesses over his reasoning for telling a teacher off. Another, he helps a younger child learn how to add and subtract.
I often joke that my son is lucky he's handsome because it's the only way he survives. But maybe it's the only way I survive. Maybe my writing pushes me forward one more day; maybe it's a good night's sleep.
Maybe survival is remembering that no matter what I feel on any given day, another one is right around the corner, and the good days always outweigh the bad. Maybe, we survive because he knows this too.
© Sera Rivers
