It’s been awhile since I’ve commented on Sam. It’s not that I don’t have things to say; it’s just that I’m not sure you’d believe them. I hardly do myself.
I have files and files on tips for infant eye contact, on signs of autism, on evaluations and write-ups and doctor forms for Sam. I think it will be the story I tell till I’m 100. It felt so real, those days and weeks where Sam wasn’t interested in looking at you, woke up at night crying inconsolably, and refused to nurse. It was terrifying because I felt like I didn’t know who my baby was, really. Would he ever be normal? What was wrong? How could I fix it? Hope has never been my strong point. Others hoped for me. Todd. Those who prayed for us. And, mostly, my mom. Early in the struggle she said she had lots of hope because it was so early, and that she believed we would tell him about this when he was 10, the story of how God answered our prayers for him. For some reason, I clung to that. In my darkest scariest moments, I would ask her: “Mom, do you still think we will tell him about this when he’s ten? Still?” She would laugh and always say yes, and yes, and yes. And I would close my eyes and picture us all, our family…we would be at the beach (because the beach is my happy place, I guess) and Todd and I would be sitting on beach chairs and Sam would be running up to us, showing us shells and waves and pointing out kites and everything else. If Mom believed it could happen, it could.
I had forgotten about that little vision until I started planning our family vacation this year. I was laughing in my head at how much fun Sam was going to have at the beach. I couldn’t wait to bring him, because I knew (and I was right) that he’d be running around pointing out the waves, and the sand, and telling us when he saw a dog or a shell… And at some point, it hit me. The vision. Mom was right, just nine years off. Our miracle did happen, it just didn’t take that long.
Sam, I want to remember forever how you say “Go Skins, Boo Cowboys” and clap when everyone laughs. How you said, “Daddy, home, see Sam, happy” the other day when Dad walked in from work. How you remember the “awesome rabbit” in Grammy’s yard and the next three words are always “Johnny,” “bushes” “catch” because you thought it was the coolest thing ever when John Haggan tried to hunt it. You tell me every time we pass a garbage truck, a tanker, the gas station on 73, or a bulldozer, which to you is simply, “bull.” You ask for noodles and beans or chicken and fries when you’re hungry, and can tell me every item on the “things that move” page. You remind us about the “hay ride,” the lazy river, and when you tell us, “big one coming,” we know you are remembering the “awesome ocean.” You ask to read “Humpy Dumpy,” and love to point out his shoes. Your favorite song is “This little light of mine,” and I know you want me to sing it when you say, “bushel, no.” It took me awhile to get it, but now I do. You love learning the name for the whisk and the teapot and the egg masher. All lotion is “desitin,” all water is “Lake Norman,” and every train is Thomas. The cutest things in the world are when you ask for SamMule, call me Mommy, Mommy, and when you remind yourself frequently, “Daddy, see Sam, soon.”
We love you Sam. You make us laugh, keep us on our knees, and remind us daily of The God Who Hears. He loves you more than we do. Love, Mom and Dad.
Smartter Each Day 