It was a small clinical office where I had taken Miles for a developmental evaluation. Like Philip before him, I watched his first birthday pass with no words. As each month has gone by I've stepped up my efforts to see that first word appear. And finally, at 18 months, I hit the alarm bell.
Early intervention for Philip was the best choice I've made as a mother. At 2 years old, he had an 18 month delay. At 3, he had no delay.
As a mother, you carry guilt. Guilt that you should do more for your children. And when there is a problem, that guilt multiplies. Early intervention can feel like an admission of defeat. I failed and I need help to get my kid where he should be.
But it isn't failure. It requires a healthy dose of humility, to accept the help of other people to come along side you and help you better understand your child. But it can transform their lives and them things you just can't.
Accepting help is as much a part of our spiritual journey as giving it. Recognizing our limitations. Owning our brokenness. Empowering someone else to share their light.
The phychologist who evaluated Miles has seen 100s of little guys come though her door. She had the calm of a saint and the deep recognition that each child is a snowflake with their own unique strengths and challenges. She raised a child on the spectrum. She knows what it's like to sit on that side of the table.
"You're a boy mom... and that is exactly what you were meant to be. Your boys were meant for you. Your sweeping gestures, your big expressions, your lively tone. You are exactly what they need. You are the exact right mom for your little guys. He's got a lot of spunk and he got that from you."
I closed my eyes and took in her words.
Sometimes God shows up in unexpected places with just the right measure of grace.
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