We’re still fighting the red tape battles to get Atti’s therapeutic services started up again. Every person I’ve talked to expressed regret that the process takes so long, but nobody seems to know any other way to do it. It’s been a rough few months trying to transition and make phone calls and get all the paperwork in place while I’ve tried to keep Atti entertained and continuing his work on our own. I fear I have started some bad habits. There has been more than one day of Yo Gabba Gabba marathons and cheerios for every meal, because trying to be his mom and his team of therapists is just a ridiculous attempt.

I met with his new Service Coordinator last week and I liked her a ton. She totally knows what she’s doing. We went through the options available, discussed how long everything would take to set up, weighed all that against his future options, and it looks like the best solution is for my little tiny baby to start preschool next month.

Preschool.

Like, with a bus and everything.

My little 2 1/2 year old will get on a bus and spend three mornings a week at SCHOOL! I’ve been weepy and clingy ever since we got the news.

To get the care he needs, he would have started preschool at three anyway, but since there is an under three program available, it just made the most sense to start when school starts back up instead of setting up an elaborate program just to undo it all in February. So while it is totally a no brainer of a decision and absolutely the right thing to do, my heart is just screaming NO!

What am I going to do without my best little baby friend at my feet all day?

I still don’t think of Atti as a toddler. Without him running all around the place, I’ve gotten this extended babyhood where even at 2 1/2 I spend most of our time together giving kisses and cuddles. Now it looks like we’re going to leapfrog right over that toddler phase and go straight to preschooler. Oh my heart. I don’t know how I’m going to take it.

Bear is Atti’s best buddy.

Would you look at what my guy did to his perfect little face?

I’m not really sure how it happened, but I know that every one of those bruises corresponds to one of the slats of his crib. Either he slept with his face squished against the side of the crib, or he had a serious headbanging session in the middle of the night.

Then there was also earlier this week when I undressed him to find enormous raspberries all over his belly. He had given himself carpet burns from the industrial carpet at the church by trying to crawl away while Bear held his ankles.

Or there was once during Christmas time I turned the corner to discover he somehow managed to tear a bunch of my handmade paper ornaments off the tree and rip them into pieces.

I probably shouldn’t take pleasure in these kinds of things, but I can’t help myself. Even when it’s inconvenient or unpleasant, the appearance of normality is just wonderful.

I often get into conversations with other moms where they talk about how their kids make them crazy. The messes they make, the hilarious things they say, the crazy daredevil tricks they come up with, including creative ways to inflict bumps and bruises. For most of the time I’ve been a mom I was just an audience to these kinds of stories. Smiling and laughing, pretending I understand, knowing that if I was going to share a story about how Atticus makes me crazy it would be something like, “Oh it makes me so crazy when he fights me about putting braces on his legs!” or “I tried and tried to get him to drink from a cup and finally he pushed it away and made me spill it all over myself.”

I tend to think these stories fit the flow of the conversation, but they usually result in other moms cocking their heads and clucking in pity. It’s not the same. It’s not inconsequential. It’s not a funny little diversion from a happy normal life, it’s a peek into a life where what makes the average mom frustrated is the base level I operate at. That’s how it seems to them anyway, because they don’t always see how happy and normal we often are.

So when something happens, even if it’s bruises on his perfect face or destroyed Christmas ornaments, that actually fits with what the other kids are doing, I rejoice. I have a story to share! I don’t have to scare all the other moms with the ghost stories of disability. I have something inconsequential to say. He’s just as big a pain in the neck as all the other kids.

I don’t like hats.

Mom! I don’t like hats! Leave me alone!

Get it off me! I DON’T LIKE HATS!

Why are you torturing me? LEAVE ME ALONE!

This is all you’re getting. Take your stupid picture.

We just finished up a big meeting where a bunch of the people who help Atti get care all get together in a room and discuss how he’s doing and what we want him to do better, and like any good blogger I couldn’t let them leave without snapping a picture.

I give thanks at least once a day that I live in California, where early intervention is such a high priority and the state funds such amazing programs, but I also give thanks for the amazing team of people I’m surrounded by who want nothing but the best for Atticus and show him such genuine love and care.

One of the questions they ask in this meeting is, “Who gives your family the support you need.” They want to make sure you’re not dealing with everything on your own. That you have family or friends, a community, helping you to deal with all the responsibilities that come with a child with special needs. It took me a second to come up with an answer that wasn’t, “Well, I’ve got you guys!”

I almost wish every mother could have their very own team of specialists. There have been so many times when I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing and there were all these people who were there to help me figure it out. When I start to beat myself up I have a team that shows me how much I’m doing. When I worry that I’m not getting it right, there is a line of people telling me how I am.

I don’t have a mom or grandma to provide those encouraging voices. My sisters all live far away. But we still have our team, cheering us on, recognizing every little progression, strengthening my resolve. It is such a gift.