I could feel it.
The other parents staring. Their glances back and forth, between my sweet son, me and then each other.
My youngest just started gymnastics. He really wanted to do it, and I really wanted to get him into occupational therapy. Like his brother, as hormones have started to change him into a man, they have also brought on an increased sensory sensitivity that is negatively affecting him every day.
The sand hurts, when it used to be his favorite.
The sound of the Yahtzee dice being thrown causes him to cover his ears.
He screams at me in frustration when he can’t get the socks on right, or the chicken doesn’t feel right in his mouth.
It feels like groundhog day. My husband and I look at each other and knowingly nod. “Here we go again.”
I am deeply ashamed to say it, but I really enjoyed having a child that required less of me in public. Up until a few months ago, his speech delay and processing speed were noticeable, but never something that required me doing anything other than translating sometimes. “No, he said he wants rice, not lice.”
It’s different now.
For him and for me.
He is anxious, all the time, especially when we are out in public.
He wants so badly to fit in. He is social and loves playing with others. But he struggles with how to do it, with limbs that seem to be going a mile a minute, and speech that is regressing.
We decided to start gymnastics because we could get him in immediately – waiting lists for therapists, that work well with ten-year old boys, are a mile long.
And it has been wonderful.
He loves it.
His body syncs up every lesson.
He adores his coach.
He sleeps well the night after.
