Waiting for my happy ending

One of the questions Mr. WG asked over and over again at the conference in Anaheim was, "What will D. be like when he grows up?" A related question is, "Well, when can we find out?"

The general consensus seems to be that the earliest you can really assess what a child is capable of achieving is age 9. That is six and half years from now. In other words, I will most likely have to refill my Zoloft once or twice. Or, you know, take up drinking as a competitive sport. (You should know, as much as I talk about wine, I'm actually allergic to alcohol, so I'm only able to drink about 2 tablespoons of wine in any 48-hour period.)

Anyway, we go back to the same refrain of taking it day by day, waiting, watching, over-analyzing, celebrating the successes, and swallowing down that fear that threatens to overwhelm me every so often.

D. starts preschool in a few weeks. His speech is improving daily, I do see that, but it's still... not where I want it to be. And I've been cavalierly assuming that once he turns 3 at the end of October and we no longer qualify for in-home services from the early intervention people that we'll "just hire a private speech therapist" rather than going through the public school system. But I'm beginning to wonder about the expense, the reality, the day-to-day. We have four children, and I don't ever want the others to think that they are denied things because we need the money for D. I don't want that thought to enter their consciousness. I don't want them to resent D. I don't want them to hate me.

A long time ago, Mr. WG and I were watching a movie, and I pointed out to him how it rains at the sad part, when the hero is down and you think he can never meet his goals. Then, when things are good again and we reach the happy ending, it's sunny. Ever since then, whenever it rains in a movie or in real life, Mr. WG says, "Now it's the sad part of the movie."

It's pouring now.

I'm holding on to the promise of the sunshine.