I’ve wanted to write about our visit to Occupational Therapy since the evaluation last week, but the truth is I’m not sure how to put my feelings into words. And oftentimes, I write therapeutically. I write because I’m bubbling over with things to say. I write when I feel like I’ll explode if I don’t.
But this time, right now, I feel more at peace with my son’s quirkiness than I have in two years. I’m at peace—excited even—because an energetic young therapist spent two hours gently mining through my son’s sensory issues and behaviors. She spent two fun hours with him identifying his fine motor delays and identifying his tactile, vestibular and proprioceptive dysfunctions.
You might not think that dysfunction is a great thing to hear about your four-year-old, but when you’ve been slowly bubbling over with doubts and fears and worries and guilt for two and a half years, it’s kind of relieving to hear that from a professional.
Okay, it’s really relieving. Especially after going through neurology evaluations and developmental pediatrics evaluations and early intervention evaluations only to be told, “we’re not sure what’s going on, just wait and see.” Especially after starting to feel like a psycho spending too much time doing research on the Internet.
I’m a little bitter that those professionals failed to recognize the Sensory Processing Disorder symptoms he displayed at the time—particularly his toe-walking and “squeezing” (chronic motor tic or stereotypic movement disorder depending on which doctor was sure about it) behaviors. The last year has been challenging. Not horrible, just challenging. And I’m sad for all the times we chalked things up to Terrible Threes or just plain bad behavior or my kid is demon spawn.
When we were finished with the appointment, the cheerful therapist said, “Do you have any questions?”
And I said, “Well. That’s it? I mean, he has Sensory Processing Disorder? For sure?”
And she laughed knowingly and said, yes, for sure. And I fidgeted and fought to keep from just throwing my arms around her and sobbing.
It’s good news when your child’s label means that he’s going to get help. Help from professionals, from a fun team, from activities he’s convinced are games and tests. (He adores tests.)
During his evaluation, I watched him fail to catch a ball. Again. And again. And again. And I smiled because that’s just my kid, that’s my son. He’s awkward and goofy.
I watched him throw down a pair of scissors and snarl, “I CAN’T DO IT, IT IS TOO HARD,” because his brain just isn’t speaking to his body the right way. The same way he growls and spits when I ask him to try to put his pants or a shirt or socks on. I didn’t smile. But I still felt relief—pure relief when her therapist carefully guided his hand and softly encouraged him and told him that even if he can’t, she’ll help him and they’ll do it together. They slowly cut a wide, shaky oval out of a piece of paper.
They’ll help us and we’ll do it together.
This may or may not be related:
