Yesterday I had a bad day.
Here is what happened:
About 35 minutes into his hour-long therapy session at PACE (the free program through the county), Jonah got mad about having to be all done with a fun activity and having to move on to the next activity, and he threw a giant fit, rendering the next 25 minutes of the session completely useless.
Jonah’s therapy sessions (he just started last week with Sophie’s former speech language pathologist, the Amazing Miss Kristen!!! so now he goes twice a week) are the most important part of my week. This is because, like I was when Sophie was delayed, I am super, super, super, super, super, SUPER-FOCUSED on Jonah getting past his speech delay. I think about it all the time. I plan times for us to work together at home. In every little thing we do together, I try to figure out how I can apply it to teaching him speech.
But 90 minutes a week, when he is at therapy, I can relax a little bit. Just a little, because obviously I am watching him like a hawk during that time and tucking away notes about how I can apply this or that at home. But for those 90 minutes it’s not my job to teach him. Pressure’s off a little. And usually, he does well and has fun and is adorable and I leave feeling encouraged.
But when he doesn’t, I just cannot recover. I lost something more than 25 minutes yesterday. I lost my ability to function for the next 12 hours. I didn’t get my encouragement, my high, my feeling of progress. I didn’t get any relief, just pressure and doubt heaped on more heavily.
I wish I could shake it off, but I can’t. The rest of my day was a wash. I feel nothing but despair. I hate to be dramatic, but that’s how it is. It’s how it was with Sophie too, but she was so much older when we started therapy that her days of non-cooperation were extremely rare and her progress was always evident.
We’ve only been at this a few months and I’m already tired of it. I would give anything to have Jonah wake up tomorrow and be caught up; to feel like conversing with me instead of only communicating his basic needs and wants. Other people’s kids seem to learn this stuff with no problems; why can’t mine?
I know he’s only two. But I’m 35, and I feel much, much older. And I’m tired of having to be all the things I’m supposed to be instead of just…being.