anytime I think about son number two I feel a catch in my throat. I know I’ve said this before but I just can’t stand it sometimes. There are so many things about him that are so good… but behind everything he is is this damned “disorder”. It makes everything so different sometimes. We consider it when we make plans: how long can we stay before he gets overwrought? What kind of place is it so that he will be comfortable? How many people will there be? Is today a day that he feels social? How much stimulation can he deal with today?

And on and on…

When he is frustrated it is so difficult for all of us.

Sometimes his anger hurts me; listening to him struggle with something that other children don’t think twice on and not being able to talk about it properly.
Sometimes his anger annoys me; listening to him complain with the exact same words OVER AND OVER for HOURS can try anyone’s patience.
Sometimes his anger baffles me; trying to explain to him that things are not as they seem, that things will be better in just a few /iminutes, please be patient …oh lord give me something to get through to this child!
Sometimes his anger embarrasses me; having him babble at me is bad enough, but watching him accost friends and strangers in order to solicit a positive response is just mortifying at times.
Sometimes his anger distracts me; I have more than one son and I am determined to give them all equal time but he does not see the reasoning behind this resolution.

I just want to do what I can do, but it never seems enough sometimes. This “disorder”, this DISEASE permeates everything in my life until I just want to scream and shake it out of him. Then I remember that no matter how much I am troubled by this problem, HE is the one who lives with it everyday. Then I am ashamed for being anything but understanding to him. How would I react if language was a mystery to me? How would I feel if I couldn’t explain the simplest of problems to other people?
how would I feel if I was dropped down in the middle of a culture whose every word sounded familiar but was still not my own? If I moved in a society whose motivations and rituals and mores were just so alien to me?

Could I keep my head up through this life? Could I keep on trying like he does? How long would I be there before I gave up? How long would I try before becoming a hermitous cynic?

I know many cynics. I will never be one. I watch my second son keep trying all the time; I watch my two other sons persist in helping him and loving him. I watch new friends warm to him and attempt to connnect with him. I watch teachers, friends, family and strangers even, interact with him and allow for his differences.

How could I ever believe this world is anything but worth hope when I see all he fights against and how many people help him in his fight?

My life may piss me off sometimes, but I know that its all there for me…. everything I need. The universe offers me love life and happiness everyday. I’m just trying to figure out how to grasp it without being afraid. I’m trying to figure out how to accept it and hand it around with wisdom. If my little guy can find reasons for pushing onward, I can only humbly do the same. He has been handed so little in so many areas that we take for granted, how petty would I be to refuse what he is not allowed to have.

I try, yes I do, to honor son’s fight by always keeping my hopes up. I want so much to be worthy of his faith in me and humanity.