Dear Kindergarten Teacher ... From a Special Needs Mom

Dear Kindergarten Teacher,

Tomorrow I will hold the hand of my littlest little and walk him to you. I am not the mom to cry on this day. I am very much the high-five, fist-pump, "go take on the world" mom on the first day of school (if that's a thing). I didn't tear up when my biggest kiddo walked into another kindergarten classroom in another state not too long ago. It was an exciting day for both of us.

But tomorrow ... tomorrow my child is going to walk into your classroom and find his cubby and (I hope) find a friend. There is so much significance in that moment. Not just because it's the first day of his education, but because of the many, many days that came before. The many, many people who have walked him through to here.

My littlest little who will let go of my hand for yours, has already been working. He has already been learning and pushing and trying to thrive in an environment not at all familiar.

My littlest little sees our world differently because the world he lives in is not the same as the one we know. His language didn't match, and his expressions didn't fall in line. We lived through the "can'ts" and the "won'ts" and the "delayeds" and "not yets" and even the "nevers". He's already pushed through all of those things; he will push through them for the rest of his life.

He has worked. With his tiny body, and tiny hands, this precious kiddo has worked.  Therapy after therapy. Specialist after specialist. Ignorant bystander after ignorant bystander. My little giant has worked through days to the point that his body physically couldn't anymore. Until he crashed to sleep in the car after the hours and hours of assistance and help.

Very special people have loved my kiddo. People that saw him from the day of diagnosis, or who found him at the half-way point, or who have been there every step of it, through the melt-downs and the set-backs and the too many heartbreaks.  They have gradually and minimally been granted access to his beautiful, beautiful world and they have patiently and gently helped him live in ours. Dozens and dozens of people have worked to bring him here. When I walk into your room holding his tiny hand they are holding it too.

Tomorrow my little giant is going to shake your hand, his grey eyes will find yours, and he will say "hello" while looking you in the eye.  The significance of that, the countless hours of work that brought this moment to life! ... I hope you understand someday.

His little, little body has worked for that moment and for thousands of moments that will follow after.

Every part of your day with him may be different. Every task and event and direction may not be followed the same as a neuro-typical kiddo would. I know that my little giant will demand more of your time and your energy and, above all, more of your patience.

I promise you that I will be here every step of that. I will answer questions. I will communicate. I will help you. I will support you. I will be in your corner. I will give you what you need.

Give him a chance. Believe in him with me. He can do this. He is able. I will not tell him otherwise. I won't believe otherwise. I have seen what he can overcome. I have seen what he has pushed through. He is strong and smart and ready.

His diagnosis is not who he is. It is everything that he is more than. He is more than a label. He is more than a challenge. He is more than a struggle. He is more than an IEP.

He is also a nervous and scared five-year-old kiddo who will leave his biggest fan, his most avid supporter and enter a world that he does not know.

If there are tears in my eyes tomorrow, I want you to know that there is so much joy mixed in. There is fear and hope and joy. He has come so far.

He has come so far.
He has so much farther to go.

Thank you for guiding him with me.

- A Special Needs Mom

A Soldier's Promise (Repost)

A Soldier's Promise ...

I cannot promise you every night of my life. I cannot promise to be beside you for every difficult moment, every trial, every hardship. In truth, I can promise you that I will not be with you for most. I will leave you at inconvenient times. I may miss the births of our children. Any special date to us may be tainted with the anniversary of the death of one of my friends. I will ask you to take over whatever life we have built together for months and years at a time. And will then crash back into that life that you have used your sweat and your tears and your heartache to keep together and try to take it back as I knew it before. I will shut you out at times because it will be the best way for me to hold it together at that moment. I will lie to you. I will tell you I don't know things when I do. I will not always tell you where I am going, when I will be back, or who I am with. I may not call you for weeks and months and you will not be able to call me. You will ask questions that I won't answer. You will know answers to questions that you will hope you never need. I will share things with my brothers that you will never understand. They will know things about me that you never will. They will be a support to me in some things that you cannot be. I will miss birthdays. I will miss anniversaries. I will have to get to know our children over and over again. I may need time to process things that seem natural to everyone else. It will seem that someone - or something - will always take precedence over you. You may lose me long before you ever thought possible. I will uproot you and ask you to re-establish our family anywhere in the world, in any season, at any time - over and over again. Sand and mud will be tracked through your halls from the boots I am too tired to take off. I will leave you when you beg me not to. I will stand at attention while you cry beside me. I will not turn my head and I will walk away. I will knowingly break your heart. And I will do it again - and again.

I cannot promise you all of me. I cannot promise that to our children. I cannot promise you much of anything.

But if you will have me, I can promise that as I march away from you it is not without sharing your heartache. I promise you that every time I break your heart I will be breaking mine. Every time that I cannot answer you I will be protecting you. Whenever you want to call and you have no number to dial I will be wanting to do the same. I will protect everything that we have created together with every fiber of my being while you do the same back at home. I will honor you in everything - every moment that we are apart and every moment that I am with you. I will fight harder and push further knowing that I do so for you. I will see the faces of our children in every life that I protect. And I will carry you with me in everything until my sandy boots once again sit just inside our door.


Written by: Megan Williams
© 2011, all rights reserved
Do not use without permission.
Read "An Army Wife's Promise" here.

An Army Wife's Promise (Repost)

An Army Wife's promise ...

I cannot promise that I will not become frustrated when you leave me and the world seems to fall apart around me. I cannot promise that I will not curse those who sent you when the dryer breaks, and the transmission needs to be replaced, and the dog eats the couch all in the same week - most likely the week after you deploy. I cannot promise that the sand and mud that cakes my floor will not cause me to give you harsh looks and rude thoughts. I cannot promise that my heart will not be torn in twelve different ways when you march away from me. I cannot promise that I will not let my anger show when you refuse to answer questions. I cannot promise to understand why you share things with your comrades that you will not share with me. I cannot promise that there won't be times when my heartache makes its presence known before my pride can mask it. I cannot promise that I will not show my worry and my concern when it is best for you not to see it. I cannot promise to understand why you do so many of the things you do. 

But I can promise that for as many tears of sadness and frustration and anger that are shed there will be double that of tears of pride. I can promise you that for every time you are away from me, I will learn to cherish the times that you are with me. In everything I will honor you and honor your sacrifice. I can promise to teach our children to do the same. I will use every moment that you are not with them to show them the amazing man that you are through my actions and my pride. I can promise that there will never be a night where you are not the subject of my final prayer and the keeper of my dreams. I promise to try to be understanding that there are many things I will never understand. I promise to keep you with me in everything and to do my best to keep grace in this life. I will be strong for you as you are strong for me and I will carry you with me in every moment until your sandy boots again sit just inside our door.

Written by: Megan Williams
© 2011, all rights reserved
Do not use without permission.

Read "A Soldier's Promise" here.

Dread

"Does everyone understand this deployment can be extended to 12 months?"

I slowly moved my head to watch the faces. I've read the orders and I know they say up to a longer date than the timeline we are going with. I didn't see surprise but I did see deep breaths being taken. It's a possibility but it's always a possibility.

It didn't hit me until two days ago. It's so different this time around. He's not going into combat and for whatever reason that has stopped me from really thinking that much about it.

He's going to come home to me.

The wave finally came. The panic. The "no more time". The "but I want him here." I don't want to be in this house without him. I don't want to watch my kiddos cry for him. I don't want to watch him walk away and board that plane. I don't want the world to keep spinning while he is on the other side of it.

I don't want that day to come.

But it's coming.
Soon.

I know how to do every, single one of those things. I know how to hold my kiddos and cry in the shower and hug a pillow that belongs to him. I know how to push through it, and thrive through it, and live through it. I know how to love this life while hating this part of it. I know how to understand the reasons for the mission and the time apart and the importance of what every single one of them is doing while hating every part of it at the very same time.

He's going to be okay. We're going to be okay.

I hate the dread. I hate the waiting.

But, my God, I love this man.
How much I am going to miss him.