What a difference a day makes

You know it has been a strange month when even your blog is feeling neglected; when the dashboard says “a while ago” instead of updating you as to whom has been reading in the last twenty four hours; when people have stopped bothering to click onto your page because they are sick of seeing the same ancient post front and centre AGAIN.

Well, yes, it has been a strange time.

Firstly, there has been work. Work that has multiplied itself and at the cusp of conclusion, has squared and quadrupled itself in order that I may feel impotent and ineffectual. Work that has been done in the wee small hours to oos and ahs of supportive and expectant people in another continent. My friends who held my head up when I was not strong enough to hold it alone.

There has been internal anguish when reminded of past mistakes and unfinished business has finally been exhausted and laid to rest. Difficult decisions made under dire and stressful situations many moons ago, brought to the fore, reminders of which were unwelcome but necessary and finally the nightmares are over and slowly the crying I hear in the next room has ceased, leaving an eerie silence in my closet where the skeletons used to live.

Then, for the finale to the month where emotions may be anything but bland: there was today. A day which I have had marked on th calendar for some time. A day which at the very thought of it’s occurrence, has struck both fear and hope in my heart simultaneously. A day during which someone else gets to explain to me their findings about my son and in doing so, possibly redefine him to the outside world forever. A day which will have me reassess every decision I have made regarding my discipline and lifestyle choices for my first-born, that I have ever made. A day on which my son is offered the opportunity to discover learning, to finally be able to interact with people on a “normal” level.

All I have to do is have him officially labelled and choose a medication which suits him, and Bob’s your mothers brother: Poetboy is “fixed”.

When I named Poetboy, my first baby boy, I chose carefully. There was no pot-luck or accidental decision, I didn’t pull a slip of paper out of a hat or flip a coin. I was looking for a name which reflected my wishes for his future, of strength and courage and freedom. My wishes. As we all impose the name we choose upon our offspring in an act of public announcement, as if to say: “this is who my child shall be”. So he was named after a famous revolutionary. A rebel with a cause.

Upon his birth, I knew that I had chosen well. His ruddy face and fierce determined expression spoke volumes and over the years I have watched him grow into his name. To make it his own as an extension of himself. I have heard it spoken in notoriety for not his Namesake’s accomplishments, but his own; I have heard him explain to people with great pride whom he is named after and intelligently explain the popular misconceptions and mispronunciations which (on hindsight) were inevitable. I have watched my little boy grow into a strong and brooding miniature man; old before his time, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Occasionally I will see his radiant smile, a chink of light amongst his darkness and anxiety. He will light up the room, filling every inch of the large shoes he was named for.

And now. Now there is an appendage to his already huge name. Now his name will be surrounded by descriptive words: “Poetboy, the special needs kid” or “the boy with learning difficulties” or most likely “Poetboy – the one with ADHD”. Do I want him to carry this label? Do I have a choice?Is he ever going to carry this name and grow larger than it, so that it no longer matters what my intentions were when naming him, it no longer matters what diagnosis has been reached?

Whatever may be, it is time for this mama to reap what she has sown and watch her baby fight the good fight.

My rebel and his cause.

~ by Femme on August 29, 2007.