Dear William,
I’m writing this to you even though you can’t read yet. Maybe you’ll see this someday – maybe you’ll read it to me.
Did you know that every time I look at you, my heart just about bursts because of how much I love you? Did you know how breathtakingly beautiful you are no matter how messy you get? And that your daddy and I still can’t believe what a gorgeous little miracle of a person we’ve produced?
You’re three years old – turning four next week. You still can’t talk much and you aren’t all that keen on toilet training. This is because you were diagnosed on the autism spectrum just over a year ago. Right away, your dad and I started to figure out the best thing we could do for you. Your name went on the waiting list for Queen Alexandra’s program and you started treatment with a private agency in the meantime.
During the year that you waited for a place at QA, your nine hours per week of therapy helped make some small improvements. But throughout the course of that year, you made no progress with toilet training and learned perhaps three or four intelligible words. That’s not your fault and it wasn’t your teacher’s fault. You just weren’t getting enough time with her to learn what you needed.
Your dad and I were overjoyed when Queen Alexandra finally had a place available for you. You started there September 3rd of this year – we were so excited for you!
Even after two weeks, I could see a change. You started to talk to us, putting two and three words together in short sentences. You’re also starting to use the toilet without having a screaming meltdown (at least not every time), even if you do still like to poop by the front door for some reason. I’m sure I’ll laugh about that one day.
You can now wave back when someone waves to you – and today when your teacher left our house, you said, “See you tomorrow!”
If you are reading this letter, William, you’re probably thinking, “Big deal.” But trust me – it is a big deal. I was starting to think you’d never talk at all.
I’m writing this to you even though you can’t read yet. Maybe you’ll see this someday – maybe you’ll read it to me.
Did you know that every time I look at you, my heart just about bursts because of how much I love you? Did you know how breathtakingly beautiful you are no matter how messy you get? And that your daddy and I still can’t believe what a gorgeous little miracle of a person we’ve produced?
You’re three years old – turning four next week. You still can’t talk much and you aren’t all that keen on toilet training. This is because you were diagnosed on the autism spectrum just over a year ago. Right away, your dad and I started to figure out the best thing we could do for you. Your name went on the waiting list for Queen Alexandra’s program and you started treatment with a private agency in the meantime.
During the year that you waited for a place at QA, your nine hours per week of therapy helped make some small improvements. But throughout the course of that year, you made no progress with toilet training and learned perhaps three or four intelligible words. That’s not your fault and it wasn’t your teacher’s fault. You just weren’t getting enough time with her to learn what you needed.
Your dad and I were overjoyed when Queen Alexandra finally had a place available for you. You started there September 3rd of this year – we were so excited for you!
Even after two weeks, I could see a change. You started to talk to us, putting two and three words together in short sentences. You’re also starting to use the toilet without having a screaming meltdown (at least not every time), even if you do still like to poop by the front door for some reason. I’m sure I’ll laugh about that one day.
You can now wave back when someone waves to you – and today when your teacher left our house, you said, “See you tomorrow!”
If you are reading this letter, William, you’re probably thinking, “Big deal.” But trust me – it is a big deal. I was starting to think you’d never talk at all.
I know that it’s because of your teachers at Queen Alexandra that you can do these things. I also know that if we lose this program, there’s a good chance you may return to being a lonely, frustrated little boy and then my heart will break.
There are only two years left before you start Kindergarten, little one. You’ve no idea how much sleep your dad and I are losing these days, how often I cry out of sheer frustration and fear. The thought of you going to school and feeling isolated, angry, maybe being bullied and unable to keep up with your classmates is just unbearable to me.
I want to keep you safe forever, but I also want you to be able to make your way in the world. One day, I won’t be around anymore and then you’ll need to be able to survive on your own. Good thing you have a little brother who worships you.
The one constant thought in my head these days is that the whole rest of your life will be affected by how well your autism can be treated now. Those are some pretty high stakes.
That’s why I’m fighting so hard for you now, trying to keep your school open. You deserve the best treatment and as much of it as you need. Your dad and I are going to move heaven and earth for you and if we still can’t save your school, then we’ll find new teachers for you who you’ll love just as much.
I hope by the time you may be reading this that you can tell me how the story ends, and that it’s a happy ending. Either way, I love you so much I almost can’t stand it sometimes. I’ll never give up on you, no matter what happens.
Love,
Mom
xoxoxo
There are only two years left before you start Kindergarten, little one. You’ve no idea how much sleep your dad and I are losing these days, how often I cry out of sheer frustration and fear. The thought of you going to school and feeling isolated, angry, maybe being bullied and unable to keep up with your classmates is just unbearable to me.
I want to keep you safe forever, but I also want you to be able to make your way in the world. One day, I won’t be around anymore and then you’ll need to be able to survive on your own. Good thing you have a little brother who worships you.
The one constant thought in my head these days is that the whole rest of your life will be affected by how well your autism can be treated now. Those are some pretty high stakes.
That’s why I’m fighting so hard for you now, trying to keep your school open. You deserve the best treatment and as much of it as you need. Your dad and I are going to move heaven and earth for you and if we still can’t save your school, then we’ll find new teachers for you who you’ll love just as much.
I hope by the time you may be reading this that you can tell me how the story ends, and that it’s a happy ending. Either way, I love you so much I almost can’t stand it sometimes. I’ll never give up on you, no matter what happens.
Love,
Mom
xoxoxo
