Summer is coming.
Creepy meme cat says it, so it must be so. Creepy meme cat, incidentally, isn’t as creepy as my two-year-old who recently pointed into the empty kitchen and asked, “Who’s that?”
Stop freaking me out, little curly-headed dude!
Unlike every May in recent memory, I feel no dread about summer coming. I feel a calm neutrality, actually. Sort of a removed sense of “this must be what normal people feel at summer’s approach—a pleasant sense of anticipation.”
It’s curious. The fear is gone.
This is not because I’ve conquered summer. I haven’t. Every year, Jack’s regressive behaviors amplify over the eleven weeks of Not Enough Structure and take me to the brink of mental breakdown. I’m not speaking in hyperbole. It’s reality. Mentally and emotionally, I barely survive summer “break” every year.
I can joke about it. The reality though is that summer is this annual recurring nightmare that gives me PTSD.
But thanks to forces bigger than my will to live, this year Jack will attend a daily summer camp with other kids and teens with disabilities where he will go bowling, swimming, to the water park, and play rec therapy games at the park. For eleven weeks, my friends.
Jack will be in sensory heaven, with helpers at his side to safely guide him through fun new experiences. I will be at the zoo with my other kids. Or at the pool. Or at the farm or the new natural curiosity museum or the botanical gardens. Or any number of places we can’t all go to together because the mom-to-special-needs-kid-ratio totally stinks around here.
God is good, people. He made the mountains and the oceans. He made lilac bushes and quaking aspens and pearly May evenings with pink sunsets.
He made my lovely boys just the way they are. And He saved us from another summer of death.