Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Mothers
BY: Tracie "Sissy" Taylor
Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O LORD, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.
~Psalm 5:2-3
The morning started out in a mad dash because I did something I never do: I overslept. For most people, that wouldn't be such a big deal, but my ten-year-old son, Rett, is autistic. Sudden changes in routine frighten him because he cannot process outside stimuli quickly enough to respond. Any disruption in routine frustrates and angers Rett and usually results in a meltdown.
As I helped Rett get dressed, I kept repeating, "Mom overslept, so we need to hurry, okay?"
"Okay," he droned, but didn't move any faster.
For a while, I thought we were making progress. Rett sat with one shoe off and one shoe on when I heard the bus honk. Oh, no, he's going to miss the bus! I ran out and motioned for the driver to please wait a minute. If Rett didn't get to ride the bus to school, he would surely have a meltdown. I scurried back into the house, helped him put on his other shoe, and then rushed him out the door. Too late. The bus was gone.
"Oh, no!" Rett cried. "It's gone!" His obvious distress confirmed my worst fears. A meltdown was inevitable.
Still, I tried to defuse the situation. "That's okay, bud. Mom will take you this morning." I used my most soothing voice.
Silence. I looked at Rett's disappointed little face and waited, expecting him to jump up and down and flap his arms. I waited for him to emit high-pitched squeals and pace from one end of the room to the other, repeating, "Oh, no. Oh, no..." punctuated by a self-inflicted slap to the head. Yes, I waited -- but nothing happened.
After breakfast, Rett hung his head and shuffled out to the car as if his shoulders had suddenly turned into stone. "Lord, please don't let him stay angry with me," I prayed. "And please don't let this destroy his whole day."
That's when I realized we'd missed the most important part of our daily routine -- morning prayer. That day, Rett said the prayer I had taught him in the car as traffic whizzed by, and all kinds of sights, sounds, and smells assailed his already overloaded senses.
When we arrived at school, I handed him over to his teacher. "You have a good day now, Rett, okay?" It was more a plea than a request. I felt like I'd held my breath the whole way over just waiting for the inevitable outburst.
"Okay," he said, his voice void of expression.
I started to drive away, my heart heavy with guilt for marring one precious day of Rett's already difficult life. As I eased over the first speed bump, I heard Rett yell, "Hey, Mom!" My window was down, so I could hear him, but I couldn't see him without turning around.
"What, honey?" I tried to sound calm, but inside I cringed. Oh, no. Here comes the meltdown.
Rett couldn't hear me, so he continued to yell, "Hey, Mom. Hey, Mom. HEY, MOM!"
By then I had stopped. I looked over to find Rett running toward the car, dragging his teacher behind him. As soon as he reached the passenger window, we made eye contact. "I love you, Mom," he said. Then he put his little hand to his lips and blew me kisses.
And that's when the meltdown finally came... not in Rett, but right inside my heart.
~Psalm 5:2-3
The morning started out in a mad dash because I did something I never do: I overslept. For most people, that wouldn't be such a big deal, but my ten-year-old son, Rett, is autistic. Sudden changes in routine frighten him because he cannot process outside stimuli quickly enough to respond. Any disruption in routine frustrates and angers Rett and usually results in a meltdown.
As I helped Rett get dressed, I kept repeating, "Mom overslept, so we need to hurry, okay?"
"Okay," he droned, but didn't move any faster.
For a while, I thought we were making progress. Rett sat with one shoe off and one shoe on when I heard the bus honk. Oh, no, he's going to miss the bus! I ran out and motioned for the driver to please wait a minute. If Rett didn't get to ride the bus to school, he would surely have a meltdown. I scurried back into the house, helped him put on his other shoe, and then rushed him out the door. Too late. The bus was gone.
"Oh, no!" Rett cried. "It's gone!" His obvious distress confirmed my worst fears. A meltdown was inevitable.
Still, I tried to defuse the situation. "That's okay, bud. Mom will take you this morning." I used my most soothing voice.
Silence. I looked at Rett's disappointed little face and waited, expecting him to jump up and down and flap his arms. I waited for him to emit high-pitched squeals and pace from one end of the room to the other, repeating, "Oh, no. Oh, no..." punctuated by a self-inflicted slap to the head. Yes, I waited -- but nothing happened.
After breakfast, Rett hung his head and shuffled out to the car as if his shoulders had suddenly turned into stone. "Lord, please don't let him stay angry with me," I prayed. "And please don't let this destroy his whole day."
That's when I realized we'd missed the most important part of our daily routine -- morning prayer. That day, Rett said the prayer I had taught him in the car as traffic whizzed by, and all kinds of sights, sounds, and smells assailed his already overloaded senses.
When we arrived at school, I handed him over to his teacher. "You have a good day now, Rett, okay?" It was more a plea than a request. I felt like I'd held my breath the whole way over just waiting for the inevitable outburst.
"Okay," he said, his voice void of expression.
I started to drive away, my heart heavy with guilt for marring one precious day of Rett's already difficult life. As I eased over the first speed bump, I heard Rett yell, "Hey, Mom!" My window was down, so I could hear him, but I couldn't see him without turning around.
"What, honey?" I tried to sound calm, but inside I cringed. Oh, no. Here comes the meltdown.
Rett couldn't hear me, so he continued to yell, "Hey, Mom. Hey, Mom. HEY, MOM!"
By then I had stopped. I looked over to find Rett running toward the car, dragging his teacher behind him. As soon as he reached the passenger window, we made eye contact. "I love you, Mom," he said. Then he put his little hand to his lips and blew me kisses.
And that's when the meltdown finally came... not in Rett, but right inside my heart.
http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/04/Meltdown-in-My-Heart.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru
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