February 1997

Agonizing choices made. The class required for my Associates of Science degree in early childhood studies has been dropped. There are fresh wounds still, wounds reopened every time I went to participate in my internship - a preschool room with a dozen wriggly, wiggly, normal four year old boys. Constant reminders of what my son will never be. I can’t see this every day, not yet. My relief has been over shadowed by my grief. My acceptance is so fragile.

One degree lost, but so much gained. I still have the Associates of Arts. More importantly, there is peace between my child and I. The wall is dissolving. I understand him a little better. We’re finally connecting. Peace is beginning between us. He still hums, spins, resists the play of his sisters, and has moments of stillness in constant motion. But he’s beginning to babble and speaks a few words. Music to a mother’s ears.

Home. Books and exhaustion weigh me down. I am greeted by humming as I open the door, but only for a moment. As the door closes, a little boy’s voice, "Mommy! Mommy!" I climb the stairs, more cries of "Mommy!" from the girls. At the top, little boy arms wrap around my hips, "Gi’ me hug!" This is my son. I can feel it, no one could miss it. "Hello, Kristav."

Tears flow, a healing balm over my heart.