Get Back Up Again

Thursday morning, James was a shaky wreck. We missed the bus. He could not focus to eat breakfast. James usually pops on his clothes, including shoes and socks in about 5-10 minutes. After an hour of waiting while he was "getting ready", I went and got him (which made things more fraught). He was close to a full-on panic attack when I pulled into the school parking lot. I remained calm and walked him to the office, where I explained in a low, calm voice what was happening.

"Thanks for letting us know," I was told. "We've got this." The woman was speaking as calmly as I was. Her eyes serious. She got it. I love this school.

No calls or texts, the whole day through, even though I had my cell phone out on my desktop, expecting them at any minute (because this happened repeatedly over this past school year). James took the bus home, and arrived in good spirits. He took being swooped up, as soon as I got home, to ABA at a nearby park in stride. Although there was no actual ABA services (there was a time misunderstanding) we hung out at the park for a bit, and said hello to some of his favourite counselors at the Boys and Girls Club.

We picked up pizza and went to go look for deer at Deer Hill North. We hit the deer motherlode: eight deer in assorted locations, ranging from the sweetest little spotted faun to full grown males with great, velvety antlers.

Home again we went. James settled down and ate some pizza and drank milk. Then parked himself alongside a gallon of vanilla ice cream. Normally I don't condone this, but this guy needs to put calories on his bones.

I read the daily notes from his teacher. James took more breaks for quiet time than usual and only had one point in the day where behaviours broke out. Otherwise, he participated. Such a difference: I was getting reports about his day on relevant topics. James went to school extremely agitated and returned calm. No undertone complaints about the staff or school (although there was some of the usual litany about past people that are associated with bad memories).

As I sat in the armchair in the living room, he began to chat pleasantly. Eventually, he asked about the Dad in Matilda. I picked up the book we'd checked out of the library last weekend and said "Hey, let's see what the author says about him."

After noisily resisting any reading whatsoever for over a year (broke my heart - I love reading), James listened to me while I read to him. I was hugging myself on the inside.

Two chapters later, my eyes were wanting to snap shut. I apologised and said I had to turn in, but we could read more tomorrow. "Okay, Mother," he agreed, and strolled off down the hall to bed.

I went to bed grateful and thankful. We were back up again.