Ian walked over to the plastic kiddie picnic table on the front porch. It’s the bright yellow number that is one of the mandatory pieces of crap that mysteriously appears when you have kids. I don’t know how we got it. It must have been a hand-me down from someone. It will have to be passed down to another family in a year or two when the boys legs are too big to fit under it, because that plastic monstrosity sure isn’t going to decompose ever. Not terribly eco-friendly. 
Ian walked over to the table juggling four slurpies from the 7-11. Steve said that they picked up the slurpies on the way back from Jonah’s soccer game and that Ian insisted on getting one for mom who had been left home to do class prep.
He set the four slurpies on the table and said, "I’m diner Lady. Here’s your breakfast. Be careful. It’s hot." Then we had to eat our pretend breakfast and coffee and give him a tip.
Then he had to be "soccer Ian." He strapped on Jonah’s shin guards and wore Jonah’s smelly t-shirt for the rest of the day with a big smile.
He’s such a happy kid these days. He’s speaking so nicely and cooperating. He is in one of those growth spurts for the brain, and we’re watching him improve by leaps every day. There’s been almost no screaming. He’s even sitting down and doing homework. The homework itself is easy stuff for him. ABCs and counting. Stuff that he mastered way before he was supposed to. In the past, getting to do the worksheets has always been a nightmare requiring more sticks than carrots. Now, he isn’t totally happy about doing them, but it’s happening with a bribe of two Pringles per worksheet.
I don’t know why he’s doing so well right now. Is because he started a new school with better teachers? Or is he just ready for it?
I’m not sure what the answer is, but I’m just glad that the cold pit of fear is gone. Fear that my kid would never talk and never do what others kids do. In those desperate days, I spent hours googling "speech delay screaming," "speech delay," "speech delay early reading." I e-mailed experts at Yale. I was worried that I had done something wrong. Did the stress from 9/11 scar his fetal brain? Was there some new therapy that I should investigate?
Ian’s still a long way from being an average 5 year old, but I don’t really care. I just like that Ian the diner lady is handing me purple slurpies on a crisp fall day.
Apt. 11d 
Yay!
(I mean really, what else is there to say?)
YAAAAY!!
LikeLike
Glad things are going so well!
LikeLike
That’s wonderful!
LikeLike
Hey, Ian doesn’t get his own shin guards? That would never be permitted around our house. He’s a beauty, and it’s wonderful that the school seems to be working for him.
bj
LikeLike
That’s great news.
And yeah, I’ve had that worry about the stress/post-traumatic depression of 9/11 and my pregnancy, too.
LikeLike
He’s a lovely boy.
There’s a similarly lovely lad who mine plays with, who when Ian’s age was as daft as a brush. He’d appear at our front door (his own house was several blocks away) with socks on and no shoes.
He’s an articulate and funny kid now. His special ability is to eat five California rolls/ sushi hand rolls at a sitting and still retain his rake-like physique. (I’m adult, considerably chubbier, and struggle to finish three.)
LikeLike