Somedays, in the darkest of days you may think, albeit briefly, about loving your child. And if you do. It's hard to remember sometimes, and it's hard to realize why you love him.
He is clothed and fed. He lives in a clean(ish) home. He struggled in his early life and you doubted yourself and every decision you made/didn't make. You needed help. You asked for help.
You called the doctors, and therapists.
You dealt with the diagnosis.
You did the research and found where to live. You found him a doctor, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a speech therapist, and occupational therapist, and even a case worker. You filled out the forms admitting that he needs more help than you thought.
You pick up his medication.
You drive to school with his meds if he leaves for school without taking them.
When the phone rings, and you see the number of his teacher your stomach clenches and upon saying "hello" you're either greeted with a sigh, or with an "Everything's okay! I just had a question."
You answer that phone. Every time.
You meet with the teachers.
You meet with the therapists.
You're on a first name basis with them. And the principal.
You think about the "What ifs".
You wonder how much farther he would be if we had that diagnosis two years earlier.
You can't go back, blah blah space-time continuum, blah blah, flux capacator, blah. But still...
You read the books.
You visit the blogs.
You laugh when he says things to his para like, "You're a bastard because you won't let a sad boy call his mom."
You cry when he says, "I hate being Autistic!"
You hate it too.
You do so much, but you still doubt that you're doing enough.
You love him.
Sometimes we all just need a reminder.