“Special Needs” fade away upon reflection

Over the last several days, quiet moments caught up with me, reminding me of one of those things often thought about but rarely spoken of when you are a special needs parent: the silent victories.

What are silent victories?

They are the moments when, for a moment, you can put aside all the challenges your kid faces and remember, and celebrate, the fact that they are just a kid. They are the moments when all those ‘special needs’ fade away and show you a glimpse of the real child underneath.

When special needs fall back in importance

Each of the last few days, I marked a milestone with Logan–each day he lasted one more day without a seizure I celebrated.

Something I noticed, something I wasn’t able to enjoy or to celebrate as the seizures took his energy and his exuberance, was that as each day passed I was able to see just a little more of my Logan peeking out.

It started in minute ways – he smiled more.

He giggled.

He embraced the world around him and looked for exciting new ways to explore it (yes, it was exploration that poured the dog’s food and water onto the kitchen floor and scattered papers far and wide). When his eyes don’t sparkle and his head isn’t turned in curiosity by every nuance of his world, it is so much easier to focus on the ‘special needs’ that pepper his remarkable existence.

Logan & Special Needs–Always but not

Logan is an example, unwitting though he might be, of the harsh reality of being a child with special needs.

You can’t separate him from the fact that he has seizures; that those seizures change the course of days, weeks, entire months is not something we can ignore.  You can’t separate him from the fact that he is autistic; that is inability to cope well with changes in routine, bright lights, too much excitement–are only a few things which autism has impacted in his everyday world, which must also be considered when doing every little thing.

By the same token, as he emerges from the grip of a bad round of seizures, I see his smile and am reminded that, underneath it all, he is just a kid. In pictures you only see an adorable little guy interacting with his world. At the store, if he isn’t reacting badly, all you see is another kid trying to get into everything.

It’s easy to forget, when we are anxiously watching and waiting for that next seizure to strike, that though he will always be defined by those seizures, by not breathing for minutes at a time, by regressing because of the hit to his neurological development–it’s easy to forget during these moments that he is and always will still be Logan: charming, mischievous, ornery.

Reflecting on the silent victories

Outside with the pint-sized gang yesterday, Logan’s exuberance for life made me smile. His giggles were loud enough for the neighborhood to hear as he chased one brother before turning on the dog. His smile was stretched from ear to ear as he reached up to clutch his ball to his chest.

And as he threw that same ball over the fence with yet another giggle and glance backward to ensure my undivided attention, I was reminded, yet again, of how far this little guy has come.

He might always be, at least partially, defined by his special needs (and there are many). But watching him throw the squeaky green ball over the fence, I feel a small victory. He’s triumphing over his ‘special needs,’ with each giggle, each smile, and each playful and engaging way he interacts in this wonderful world of his.

The victories for a kid like Logan tend to come silently, in the small moments of discovery, of celebration, of a kid just being a kid.

The silent victories can pass us by if we’re not looking for them

This is one day, one moment of Logan’s journey, and I would love to know what you thought of his victory.

How has your special needs child shown you how to embrace the small victories in life?

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