Watching and Waiting

We watch Aaron closely, every moment, and take great pleasure in what seem to be iotas of progress.

Mostly, these moments come when he demonstrates strong comprehension in some way that surprises us.

This morning he was standing, staring at the TV, face near the glass, while he and his sister watched a few minutes of Sesame Street. From the kitchen I called out, "Aaron, please sit down." He backed up three steps and sat down, but never once looked at me.

A few days ago I was holding him on my lap in a field at the Morris Aboretum. I looked at him directly, and did not shift my head nor my eyes. I said one word: "Sky." Instantly his head shot back as he looked upward.

These moments occur regularly. They are our lifeline, our cause for hope. They strengthen our gut belief that there is a smart little boy inside that wobbly, mostly silent body.

Yet his inability to communicate is frustrating for him and us. This morning I took him out of his high chair when I thought he was finished eating breakfast and he started screaming. I was left guessing as to what was wrong; I'm still not sure.

So we watch and we wait. We watch for morsels of progress and wait for greater breakthroughs. We watch for demonstrations of comprehension and wait for him to give voice to his levels of understanding.

I have never found it so hard to be patient.