|
|
 |
|
Special Needs Dads
|
|
Written by Jeff Stimpson
|
The other day Jill and I ran into one of Alex's therapists from his old
school. He asked how Alex was doing, and said that Alex's old teachers
have checked this site but lately hadn't seen much written about him.
"Well," Jill offered, "there isn't much to write about."
Thank god. This is approximately the 178th essay about Alex, so I have
to think I've covered a kid who's not yet half-way through
kindergarten. Still, the topics have wavered off Alex lately, off
doctors, oxygen tanks and special needs, and onto the antics of
full-term Ned, potholes and hilltops of marriage, and mental doodles
about novelists and air travel. Some readers have said the topics have
wavered too much.
It has been a busy year regarding Alex. In late spring we started
scouting for the right public school. By summer, we were arguing with
the Board of Ed. for the right public school. By fall, we were lifting
Alex onto the bus to take him to the right public school. Alex's
schooling has, in many ways, been the best thing about the second half
of 2003. Last month, I attended the first of what I suspect will be 15
years' worth of PTA meetings, many of which will be on behalf of Alex,
whose education will require, well, special needs in the age of budget
cuts (one PTA mom reported she donated paper towels to her school by
stuffing the rolls into the seat pocket of her son's wheelchair). Most
nights, one of us sits with Alex and does real homework, at which he is
becoming more comfortable; the other night he and I were making F's
hand-over-hand; my fingers felt him take over on the downward slash and
the two lines across, his own featherweight force guiding my hand
through the ! letters.
He's talking more. We've taken a solitary "Please" and built it into
"More, please," "More, please, daddy," and "More pretzels, please,
daddy." "Thank you" and "You're welcome" we're all using in almost the
correct order. We get the clearest utterances out of Alex when he's
uncomfortable: Once when we had a fever, he said, "I'm thirsty." Once
when he was tired he snapped, "Tired! Take a nap!"
In general, however, I drift on Alex day to day. Yesterday, for
instance, was the second afternoon of a snowbound weekend. Jill and Ned
were at a neighbor's. Alex sat at the little table, zipping through a
simple jigsaw puzzle. I was watching the Redskins-Giants game with the
volume off; I heard the puzzle come together with little clicks. I'd
brought the red tricycle into the living room, but Alex wasn't
interested. Untouched toy cars littered the toy garage. I doubt he was
tired, since all we'd done all day was walk down the nine flights of
stairs to get the mail and tour the battleship-gray basement of our
building. Forget outdoors: On Saturday, for some reason I'd figured
Alex might like a little walk in a blizzard. Trouble was, Alex had
already looked out the living room window, and as we neared the door of
our building he grabbed the railing and dug in as though trying to keep
his footing on a capsizing deck.
"Oh, c'mon Alex, let's take a little walk!" Misguided faith, I guess,
propelled him into the wind chill. By the end of the block he did what
any sensible person except a father would do, and waded and slid toward
the convenience store. "Cheez Doodles!" I heard him plead into the
wind. "Cheez Doodles, PLEASE!" No, no Cheez Doodles (I should've bought
him some), but yet another pointless corner or two before he spun into
my abdomen and pleaded to be carried the block and half home. About the
only thing that walk accomplished was maybe teaching Alex the word
"lunatic."
On Sunday, as football players moved around the field without sound, it
struck me that I don't spend enough time educating Alex. Even on a
Saturday of lousy weather I'd opted for the kind of easy activity I've
been doing with him since the days of having to slide oxygen tanks into
the bottom of the stroller.
Nowadays, there's art and reading. There's wrapping his fine fingers
around crayons and feeling his pressure create more letters. There's
planting the easel in the center of the living room and discovering how
much Crayola was lying when they printed "washable" on the paint
bottle. There are the F's. There is the future. There's more than just
no more oxygen tank.
Bio: Jeff Stimpson's articles and essays can be found on his website at jeffslife.net Jeff has also written a book entitled: Alex: The Fathering Of A Preemie.
|
|
 |
 |
|
|
|
LATEST ARTICLES ON FATHERVILLE |
|
|
|
MOST RECENT FORUM POSTINGS |
|
|
|
MOST READ ARTICLES ON FATHERVILLE |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
