One more day until graduation.
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The Princess is four and a half years old. She does not speak. She will stim all day if you let her. She rarely (if ever, depending upon who you are) responds to verbal requests, though this particular point is getting better on a daily basis for those closest to her. She has sensory issues. The littlest thing can set her off. Try as I might, I can rarely figure out what triggers her meltdowns. All I can do is hold her and soothe her the best I can.
All of the autism stuff aside, this has got to be the most generally happy kid I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I consider myself lucky as hell that God chose me to be her momma. I feel blessed every day for what I have with her, her daddy, and our splendiferous pooches.
But my heart breaks a little every day, too. Other moms of four-and-a-half-year-olds are taking them to see Santa at the mall, having their pictures taken with their smiling faces reflected perfectly in the camera lens. These other little ones are writing their names and holding amazing conversations. They sit quietly in their rooms and read, because they want to.
The Princess couldn't possibly understand an abstract concept like Santa Claus. She can't tell anyone what she wants for Christmas, because she doesn't speak. She also has no interest in television or most other things that are marketed for kids her age, so it's a moot point, anyway. Taking a picture with a stranger in a loud, hot, crowded mall? Forget about it. Writing? Not yet. We're still in the I'd-rather-eat-crayons-than-draw-on-the-paper stage. Conversations? I'd be happy with the ability to say yes and no. Hell, I don't even care if it's verbal. Shaking or nodding her head would be the coolest thing in the history of the world. Reading? More like tearing the pages out of books and stimming to her heart's content with the scraps.
Our girl has received many books, as most little ones do. The difference between her and these other kids is that she doesn't seem to understand what books are all about. After a few misguided attempts to let her figure them out, the surviving volumes have been moved to a safer place, out of her reach and - largely - out of our minds.
The Hubbs and I love to read. I know a lot of people say this, but we mean it. When given the option to watch TV or read a book, we'll almost always choose the latter. Throw on a little bit of classical music and we're good to go for the entire evening. In case you're interested, we've been playing the heck out of Pandora's Mannheim Steamroller Christmas station lately.
Sunday evening, The Princess climbed up on the loveseat with me while I was reading, and she snuggled up next to me in the sweetest little hug. After drinking in her affection for a few minutes, I slipped to the basement where her books are, and I grabbed two choices: the original
Winnie the Pooh treasury and
Wet Albert.
I brought both books upstairs and gave her a choice. She chose Pooh Bear, so I put
Wet Albert away for the time being and The Princess, Pooh, and I went into her bedroom.
I read her the entire first short story, one about Piglet and a Heffalump, before bed. Did she sit still? No. Did she hang on every word? No. But she paid attention in her way. She spent those 20 or so minutes in constant contact with me, climbing all over me as I read her the story. From time to time, I asked what she thought, and she mumbled back at me. Not in English, but hey...I'll take what I can get. I stopped a couple of times to either rearrange myself or take a breath, and she went forehead-to-forehead with me until I started again.
She loved it.
I loved it.
Finally. She's four and a half, and I can finally have story time with my daughter.
