You may have noticed a lack of Monkey stories this week. That’s because he’s away with his dad, and we are trying to muddle along in the space he leaves behind when he’s gone. Specifically, that space denotes a marked lack of: dimples, jokes that make no sense whatsoever, and hugs that squish the air right out of me. (I miss two out of three of those things a LOT.)
While my kids are always on my mind, here or not, Monkey’s been on my mind even moreso than usual. I share bits and piece of the immediate, here, but thanks to the kindness and encouragement of fellow mom-in-the-spectrum-trenches Shannon Des Roches Rosa, I finally sat down and wrote about our diagnosis journey, the way that only hindsight can tie it together. I struggled with it; sometimes I don’t know if I can explain how “wishing it was different” and “loving him exactly how he is” can intertwine and coexist, even as they seem to contradict one another. They don’t.
This Love Thursday, I tip my metaphorical cap twice: first, to those insightful rockers who noted that you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need; and second, to the beautiful and perfect young man who has taught me more about grace in the last ten years than I’d learned in the previous nearly-30 years.
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