I feel like I probably wrote about this already, but if I did, it's not on the page of my blog currently viewable, and I'm too lazy to search my own archives. So if you find yourself bored and singing the words along with me, feel free to switch to a different station.

When we first started PT with D., when he was four months old, my first question to the therapist was, "So, how long do you think he'll need therapy?" And that has continued to be my question with every new therapist we encounter. I also constantly ask them to rate him -- how delayed is he? How much has he caught up in the last 6 months/2 weeks/5 minutes? When do you think he'll be all caught up?

I guess it's that old stubborn pride. Although D. has special needs now, there's a part of me that believes, or wants to believe, that one day all of this will be behind us. That when I give the award-winning speech at his Bar Mitzvah, we'll all look back on these days and laugh.

It's amazing how able I am to empathize with someone else with a child with special needs while at the same time thinking, Whew! We really dodged a bullet there! Thank goodness D. will outgrow his delays.

And lately, I've come to be a little more realistic. But it's like peering over the edge of the abyss, and I haven't yet had the courage to face it head on, much less to jump and expect the parachute to billow up above me and carry me to safety.

It's been weighing heavily on my mind the past few days in particular because of my birth control. I see your confused expression, so let me explain. I'd been on Seasonique, the pill you take for three months at a time. And I've been having freaking crazy night sweats. I mean, every night I have to get up and change in the middle of the night because I am drenched. So I thought it might be related to the pill. So after a year, I finally saw the NP at my OB/GYN's office, and she switched me to Yasmine. And boy, howdy! What a ride.

1. I still have night sweats.
2. I also burst into tears ALL DAY LONG.

So I called the office to report this, and I was told: Hormonal issues can take up to SIX WEEKS to resolve.

Lucky, lucky me. And lucky YOU, dear readers, who reap the benefit of my emotionally-charged life.

The Climax is Always Anticlimactic

My mom called yesterday. From her cell phone, from the gift shop at the synagogue where she volunteers. After ascertaining that my father was nowhere around, I told her our troubles.

"So, I don't know what Daddy is trying to do," I concluded after rambling through the story. "I mean, we're already aware that D. has issues and needs therapy. Which he gets. And if he's coming from the other side, the side where he thinks we shouldn't bother -- well, this is our son."

My mother sighed. "Well, I think Daddy's point is that if at some point in the future you see that D. is not progressing, you need to reevaluate. And he's sowing the seeds for that."

I think she could tell I didn't really like that answer, because she rushed to fill in the space. "When Daddy was practicing, he always told patients that they would have a terrible recovery, that there was a good chance the surgery would fail. I think he thinks it's better to have them be happy when it works than upset when it doesn't. And whenever I was pregnant and I came home from a doctor's appointment, I would tell him that everything was fine, and he would always say, 'Yes, the doctor heard a heartbeat. But he has no idea if the baby has six legs.' And I would say to him 'Well, what would you do if something was wrong?' And he'd say, 'I'd put it in a home.' And I'd say, 'Yes it might eventually come to that, but we could try first.'"

I guess it's partly my dad's generation, where children with Down's syndrome or other developmental issues, where people with disabilities in general were assumed to be unteachable, unreachable, and generally not worth the effort. I guess it's partly his own life experiences, where he had no reason or opportunity to encounter anyone different from his norm. And I guess it's partly his personality, that surgeon's God complex. And while it's painful to think that he will never be able to appreciate everything wonderful that D. is, the pain is not so much for D, but for my father.

Because my kid rocks, and my dad is missing out.

Third Verse, Same as the First

Can I just say that I never want to be a single mother? Mr. WG spent a week in Israel at his brother's wedding, and then he came home for about 12 hours, and then he spent a week in L.A. for work. My parents were in for the first week, to "help," but for the second week, it was all WG. And holy God, was it exhausting.

Anyway, so my parents were here for a week, and then the day after they left, the day that Mr. WG was here for a few hours in between jet-setting about the world, my dad called Mr. WG. And told him that he feels that D is two to three years delayed. Now, this isn't the first time my dad has come up with something like this. But again, as before, I just don't get what he's trying to say.

Is it that he thinks we don't know that our son has issues, that he feels he needs to scare us into taking action? Getting therapy? Doing something, as opposed to sitting around with our rose-colored glasses on commenting on how very pink the world looks today?

Or is it something more sinister, like that he thinks we should just stop trying and accept that D. will never catch up?

Mr. WG votes for option three: he just wants to be mean.

I don't get it, and I've been putting off dealing with it, because he's my dad. But D. is my kid. And Mr. WG is my husband. And this has to stop.

So yesterday, in an attempt to escape our troubles and cares, the boys and I went to the park. And guess who was there? DevilChild! This time he had a rake, a toy plastic rake. After a few minutes, he put it down and headed for the swings. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw D. pick up the rake and examine it, so he jumped off the swing, ran over and grabbed it back. "I'm using that," he said. "Sorry, D.," I explained. "DevilChild doesn't want to share. Maybe later he'll want to share."

His mother continued her critically important cell phone conversation on the far side of the park.

Lather, rinse, repeat. DevilChild would toss the rake aside and head off to do something else. D. would pick up the rake, and DevilChild would immediately insist that he was using it.

"That's not very nice," I told him. "Just remember that D. lives RIGHT HERE, right next to the park and brings a lot of good snacks and cool toys. And if you don't share with him, he won't share with you."

He was unfazed.

But then, sweet karma intervened. When DevilChild's mother ran out of people to call, she gathered her children and loaded them into the car. And I noticed, as she pulled out of the park, that DevilChild had forgotten his rake. I watched as the car pulled out and turned down the street. I think I even smiled and waved. And when they were out of sight, I picked up the rake and presented it to D. with a flourish.

And I didn't even feel bad when he broke it.