Last fall I started having some questions about N’s development, primarily his speech skills and his extreme shyness around adults with whom he was not familiar.  I had him evaluated and he was pronounced perfectly fine and on track in every area of development.  Excellent.

Then maybe three months ago my mommy voice started wondering again if something was not quite right.  Questioning whether his speech was clear enough and again, he is just so painfully shy.  Sometimes if an adult he doesn’t know tries to get him to talk he flaps his right arm a little. And there’s the morbid fear of hand dryers in public restrooms and the blender. So, you know, loud noises.

N had his 3 year check up this week and our doctor gave me a window for discussion when he started asking about N’s shyness.  He never talks in front of the doctor, so he was wondering…and I told him about my concerns.  His opinion was that it’s worth checking out.

So there you have it.  N has an evaluation for spectrum disorder next Thursday morning. And I am oh-so-nervous.  Scared.  A little sad.  And still of the opinion that it is the right thing to do.  Better safe than sorry, yada yada yada.

I know that as far as these things go, I’m pretty lucky.  It is clear that N is not profoundly disabled.  He is intellectually “neurotypical,” he cuddles, he interacts with and enjoys other children, he communicates well, less the pronunciation of many words, with adults he knows, he maintains eye contact, his gross motor skills are amazing, he plays pretend, he is empathetic, he is completely flexible to changes in our routine.  So whatever it is, at least I know it’s not insanely debilitating.

And yet the sadness and anxiety remain.

The thought of my little boy struggling. At all. Ever.

I know it is unrealistic, but, like most moms I know, I want it to be possible for him to sail through life blessed, without heartaches, and remaining perfectly adjusted and balanced.

So I find myself in this place where every time I look at him I’m evaluating.  I have conversations in my head that go something like this:

“Well, my mom says I was exactly like him around adults I wasn’t familiar with as a kid, and now I’m insanely social…”

“He is totally playing pretend with his stuffed animals.  Autistic kids don’t do that, right?  Or maybe they do, but imaginary play is limited. Is his imaginary play limited?  What the hell does that mean anyway?…”

“He repeats the same conversations day after day, gives the same answers about things a lot.  Points out the same objects around the house all the time.  Repetitive speech.  But he doesn’t repeat the same word over and over.  And his answers are appropriate.  But he’s hard to understand.  He won’t talk at all in front of adults he doesn’t know.  But he’s fine with other kids…”

“He isn’t a loner.  He likes to do lots of different things.  Hmm..is he too hyper?  He’s 3.  He can sit still for story hour.  He bounces a lot.  He likes to dance…”

“The evaluation is with a stranger in a strange place and only lasts an hour.  He’ll never open up in an hour.  She won’t be able to see that he really does communicate and have conversations.  He’s not going to be accurately assessed.  He’s going to get a false label.  But , these people do this for a living, right?  So they probably know what they’re doing…”

“You’re being an ass.  The more you know and the earlier you know it the better.  He is the same kid he was yesterday.  He is not going to be institutionalized for God’s sake, he might just need some help.  Lots of people on the spectrum have completely awesome lives…”

And on it goes.

If you’re reading this and you have any experience with this or words of wisdom, they are much appreciated.  As are prayers, good vibes, positive thoughts or whatever you’re inclined to do to offer peace with the situation no matter the outcome.

In the end, I know we’ll all be ok.  That this is the life we are meant to have no matter how it goes.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish it would go the easy way I want sometimes.

Especially when it comes to my boy.