Huge Little Victories

Friday, we left for the mountains to celebrate Grayson’s thirteenth birthday. Pulling away from the house, celebrating was the furthest thing from my mind, as by then, I had already endured Grayson’s infinite mind changes and endless deliberations over where to celebrate, who we should invite, where we would eat, what we would eat, what the hotel would look like, smell like, etc…etc…etc…

After much searching, I discovered that we would pass a small farm-to-table restaurant en route to our hotel, capable and willing to accommodate Grayson’s strict diet. Making an executive decision as to where we would eat, I informed Grayson, showed him photos of the restaurant, reviewed the menu with him, and helped him select his meal in advance. Arin and I found the food delicious, especially the dairy-free basil tomato soup made with coconut cream. But according to an irritated Grayson, the restaurant didn’t have “normal food.” This fact caused Grayson to storm outside to calm himself in the darkness frequently, and there were multiple episodes of—thankfully silent—tears, concealed by ducking his head beneath the table or tightly drawing his hoodie shut, where only his flaring nostrils could be seen. Although he tried (microscopic) bites of everything, Grayson’s dinner essentially ended up being the “normal” gluten, dairy, and egg-free birthday cake that I made and brought from home.

The following morning, at the hotel breakfast buffet, Grayson spontaneously walked up to our server and asked for orange juice—all by himself— and as he turned to walk away, she horrifyingly patted his shoulder.

Now, as any parent of a kiddo with sensory issues knows, the slightest graze from a stranger’s hand can instantly evolve into a full-blown, head-banging, hair-pulling, body-thrashing, red-faced meltdown. However, on October 27, 2018, Grayson’s 13th birthday, he didn’t flinch; he didn’t even seem to notice when a stranger touched his shoulder. 

The episode made me recall another experience that occurred in a Missouri hotel restaurant roughly 11 years prior. Grayson was sick, on prednisone, and a complete mess. He was irate, screaming and demanding juice. When my dad handed him some, Grayson flung the cup to the floor and threw a massive tantrum. Hours later, he bit his new baby sister’s toes and made her bleed for no apparent reason at all.

I also remembered the first time I tried to take him swimming with his siblings at the community rec center. After half an hour of screaming and crying, he finally calmed down enough to sit on my lap. For the remainder of our stay, he repetitively buckled and unbuckled the life jacket. He never got in the water.

But on his 13th birthday, Grayson stayed in a new hotel, kind-of ate at an untried restaurant, and rode his scooter down monstrous ramps at a new indoor skatepark—and never once had a single meltdown. He asked for help from strangers when needed. He navigated his way through the skatepark while we sat and watched; he attempted new skills and worked through his fears with the coping mechanisms instilled by his angelic teachers over the years. 

The morning of his birthday, he wrote me this note, using voice-to-text on his iPad, another gentle accommodation taught by his teachers when hand-writing felt overwhelming:

To any parents muddling through the brutal introduction of life with a special needs child—it can get better. The progress is slow and often imperceptible, but the payoffs are immense and immeasurable. I don’t know whether he’ll ever attend college or move out of our home, but I do know that I’ve learned more from him than he will ever learn from me. Although I repeatedly question whether I’m the right mom for him, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he is the right boy for me.

Look closely for the small victories, and you will find them—glistening like the proverbial silver needle in the haystack. These huge little victories do not scream but whisper; they do not demand attention but rather slip through the cracks of time unnoticed and unappreciated unless we possess the eyesight to see.

Parenting is not for the faint of heart, let alone parenting a special needs child. But at the end of the day, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things…love never fails.” (I Corinthians 13:7)