THE Evaluation

January 4th we had a full check-up for my boy. Head-to-toe with his pediatrician to rule out anything medical that could in any way explain G's struggles. She had to slowly-slowly move across the room toward him while she and I chatted and ignored the little elephant in the room. She couldn't speak to him or make eye contact or he would squawk, cover his face and hide behind me. When she was finally able to get close enough, she continued to talk to me, pretending to ignore him, but handing him each tool she would be using(stethoscope, otoscope, tongue depressor, etc) to inspect, play with, and decide he wasn't afraid of before she could use it on him. In the end she declared him the picture of health, in the 50th percentile for height and 95th for weight. The next day, however, was the day I'd been dreading and yearning for all at the same time: His EI evaluation. One part of me was praying he was having a low-down, no-good, terrible day so the core of evaluators could see him at his worst and know what we're really dealing with. On the other hand- who wants to hope their kid is having an awful day?! Me, that's who. I had been told by so many that he was 'just a boy' and a myriad of other bull-crap that I was beginning to doubt my intuitions. Maybe it WAS just my inability to parent a spirited boy. Maybe it WAS my failure. Maybe the evaluators would come tomorrow and tell me to quit being paranoid and MAKING my kid seem to have problems like my husband often did. 

The day came, and G was having a good day. A GREAT day, even. The team of evaluators arrived a little before dinner time, and he settled right in. Five strange women sat in a circle around him on the living room floor and he was completely unphased. They gave him toys to play with, interacted with him, tested him in various ways, and he charmed them all. All five evaluators stayed longer than they even needed to simply because they were having fun with him(so they claimed- LOL).
Once they were finished, we sent G upstairs to play with his sisters and the evaluators went over his scores with us. Both my husband and I sighed heavily(though for different reasons) when they explained the numbers to us: He more than qualified for services- Occupational Therapy, specifically. He also qualified for Speech Therapy, but they believed his verbal issues were due to oral muscular and sensory issues and that OT would help that. They told us we'd be getting a call from our service coordinator in the following days and learn how things would proceed from there.

I was relieved. SO relieved. It wasn't me being a failure. It wasn't that I was a bad mom, incapable of raising a boy. It wasn't the dark cave of Post Partum Depression I'd been struggling with since the day G was born stealing me away from my child. Best of all: HELP WAS ON THE WAY! It could still be weeks, but it was coming and before long there was bound to be improvement and other resources. 

My husband struggled. For him it was not relief, but rather a confirmation that his only son, his name sake, was defective- labeled as "Special Needs." I struggled with that from time to time as well, but the relief of help  for improvement and hope for the future often chased away the fears. 

Turning Two and an Ultimatum

Nobody ever wants to admit that there might be something less-than-normal going on with their child. No one. Sometimes it's undeniable, other times it's more comforting to listen to those voices who poo-poo the concerns spoken in quiet voices of frustration. G's quirks and struggles became a major source of tension between my husband and I, causing a rift and marital struggles only he and I truly know. Suffice it to say that when I can attest to the statistics of couples with special needs kids having a higher rate of divorce because of the stress. I can totally see how that's true. My teacher mind was always screaming at me over G's lack of verbal communication, his fits, his inability to eat or even chew most foods, his night terrors, his self-injurious behaviors, his anxiety, night terrors, and inability to even make eye contact with a stranger. My husband was working overnights so he worked all night and slept all day, leaving me essentially a single mom of a preschooler, an intensely high-needs toddler, and a newborn. He had voices around him telling him G was just a boy, just needed some discipline, would just grow out of it, etc, and his own head refusing to admit that his son, his only son, his name-sake, his pride and joy could be anything other than 100% "normal." Any time I broached the subject he immediately grew defensive and angry, claiming I wanted something to be wrong with my child. His words were obviously false and very hurtful, but I couldn't let it go. I finally got him to agree that if he wasn't speaking by the time he turned two we would call Early Intervention to have him evaluated for his speech delay.
The day came that G turned two-years-old and we didn't call. As was the usual, we'd set an ultimatum and he'd juuuuuuuuuuuuuuust squeak close to the bar we'd set so we'd hold off. In this instance, he expanded his vocabulary from "Ma" and "Da" to include "Ch-" for 'cheese,' "Beh-" for 'bread,' "Psssss" for 'please,' and a weird "-nk" clicking sound in the back of his throat for 'thanks.' So October passed and so did November. Between our little one born in September and G I got little sleep at night, no naps during the day, and when December rolled around I was empty. I had nothing left to give. I fell into a very dark, depressed state. I felt horrible. I thought I was an awful mother, a terrible wife, and a miserable person altogether. One night was particularly terrible for G's night terrors, the baby was breastfeeding almost non-stop because of her 12-week growth-spurt, and my husband was, of course, at work. As G was screaming for the third hour I was in tears and hysterical. I grabbed his little shoulders and screamed in his face, "WHAT DO I DO? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE! DO YOU HEAR ME? WAKE UP! I CAN'T DO IT ANYMORE!" He was, of course, sound asleep despite his night terror and seemed unphased by my outburst, but I collapsed beside his bed sobbing in horror at what I'd just done.
When we all got up for the day that morning, I immediately called my friend Danielle. She was my one local friend, and she just happened to have two kids with SPD, one of which was also autistic. I had met her two years prior on an international cloth diapering forum online and we had often discussed the similarities between her sensory/autistic kid/s and my son. When my husband just happened to get a job offer across the state and we moved twenty minutes from her house, we quickly formed a close friendship and started having our very own "sensory playdates" where our kids who might be looked down on for their behavior elsewhere were free to play together in their own way with understanding parents and siblings. She was put in my life for a reason and by a Higher Power. Truly, she's been my sanity more than once.
So back to that phone call. She said in her usual upbeat voice, "Hi! How are you?" I melted into tears, described my night and told her I couldn't do it anymore. I asked her about Early Intervention in our county and how I could reach them. She answered every question I had, gave me so much comfort and advice. When my husband came home from work I simply told him I needed him to watch the kids before he went to bed because I was calling EI right that moment and needed quiet. He just nodded okay. I think that was a turning point in our lives.