It seems every time we go out and spend time with other “neurotypical” (to use a buzzword) children, I come home with sadness and disquiet in my soul. As much as I try not to, I inevitably compare Ethan to the other kids. Everyone says you shouldn’t compare, but I find it impossible not to! My hope is that as I grow more accustomed to Ethan’s diagnosis and more accepting of his disability I won’t compare as much.
The sadness is not so much for my loss of the same depth of relationship that other parents have with their 4 year old children (although that is part of it). I feel sadness for what Ethan seems to be missing out on, and what I fear will lead to him being rejected by his peers. The other day as Ethan played on the prep playground after school, I watched as an older boy tried to strike up a conversation with Ethan. It went like this:
Older child: “Hi are you in kinder?”
Ethan: no eye contact, after a 5 second delay “yets” (“yes” – his standard echolalic response)
Older child: “I’m in prep. Do you know where that is?”
Ethan: no eye contact, no response
Older child, pointing: “Prep is in that building over there, see?”
Ethan: no response, no eye contact, climbs past the boy
My heart ached, I felt sad for the other boy who had put so much effort into that interaction and received so little in return; and sad for Ethan who doesn’t understand or respond. We have spent hours coaching and drilling him in “parallel talk” in therapy, but his ability to generalise social responses is so inconsistent.
His poor physical skills also concern me – he stumbles along, running too fast in his loose gait, trying to keep up, falling over constantly, tripping, falling off playground equipment, getting distracted, with perpetual bruising. Other people must see me as a “helicopter mother”, always hovering around him, but they don’t realise how uncoordinated and accident-prone Ethan is. And his inattention, poor visual scanning and limited awareness of safety mean that he needs constant supervision.
I want to just stop worrying about his differences and delays, which seem to be ever-increasing as his peers’ development speeds up. Lately I find myself often thinking about his longer term future as the extent of his disability becomes more evident. It is sobering and anxiety wells up – even though I am so grateful to God for who Ethan is and what a precious, sweet son he is.
The sadness is not so much for my loss of the same depth of relationship that other parents have with their 4 year old children (although that is part of it). I feel sadness for what Ethan seems to be missing out on, and what I fear will lead to him being rejected by his peers. The other day as Ethan played on the prep playground after school, I watched as an older boy tried to strike up a conversation with Ethan. It went like this:
Older child: “Hi are you in kinder?”
Ethan: no eye contact, after a 5 second delay “yets” (“yes” – his standard echolalic response)
Older child: “I’m in prep. Do you know where that is?”
Ethan: no eye contact, no response
Older child, pointing: “Prep is in that building over there, see?”
Ethan: no response, no eye contact, climbs past the boy
My heart ached, I felt sad for the other boy who had put so much effort into that interaction and received so little in return; and sad for Ethan who doesn’t understand or respond. We have spent hours coaching and drilling him in “parallel talk” in therapy, but his ability to generalise social responses is so inconsistent.
His poor physical skills also concern me – he stumbles along, running too fast in his loose gait, trying to keep up, falling over constantly, tripping, falling off playground equipment, getting distracted, with perpetual bruising. Other people must see me as a “helicopter mother”, always hovering around him, but they don’t realise how uncoordinated and accident-prone Ethan is. And his inattention, poor visual scanning and limited awareness of safety mean that he needs constant supervision.
I want to just stop worrying about his differences and delays, which seem to be ever-increasing as his peers’ development speeds up. Lately I find myself often thinking about his longer term future as the extent of his disability becomes more evident. It is sobering and anxiety wells up – even though I am so grateful to God for who Ethan is and what a precious, sweet son he is.
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