Monday, June 28, 2010

The Call

Yesterday, I made the call.
I called our pediatrician and scheduled Bug for a behavior/developmental evaluation to find out why my oldest views the world so differently than the rest of us.
I have gathered his school testing and girded my loins and laid pen to paper to list our many concerns.
I have explained to The Man why it is imperative we have a diagnosis, a platform to stand on, to fight from for Bug.
And he asked me a question I hadn't considered.
He said it sounded like I wanted something to be wrong with our son.
After a moment's thought, I replied, yes, I did.
No, I don't want Bug to struggle to make friends and behave in a fashion normal for a six year old.
No, I don't want him to struggle every day to fit in, a round peg trying to wedge himself in a square hole.
No, I don't want to have this knot of fear in my stomach every day we send him to school that he's going to go berserk and I'll get the call.
I want him to have an easy time of it, to make friends, to go through the day without worrying about him every second.
And while nothing is wrong with my Bug a boo, Bug marches to his own, slightly off beat drummer in a world where most other people are in step.
I just want the name and rythm to his song so that I can march along.
I feel a diagnosis would give me that.
I understand, as a parent, that Bug will require more of my effort, more of my time, more of my protection than my other two children. And when marching into battle, I want to know what banner to raise and what tactics to employ to keep Bug as unscathed as possible.
A diagnosis won't fix anything, but it will give me firmer ground to stand on instead of the quicksand I've been mired down in for almost six years.

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