At 2:40 this morning, I woke up.
Not that vague sense of surfacing for a moment before settling back under the wave of unconsciousness but the total, unmistakable alertness, as if waiting for the voice to come out of the darkness.
At 2:45 this morning, the phone rang.
Except, it didn't ring, because I'd silenced it for Sam's choir concert last night and forgotten to turn the ringer back on. If I hadn't been awoken five minutes earlier, I'd have never have noticed the light emanating from the crack between the nightstand and the face-down phone screen.
It was my son.
1000 miles away, homesick, aching, sick-sick, heart-broken, stressed, exhausted, unable to eat, unable to sleep, on the edge of the precipice and on the breaking point. I was on the phone for the next five hours.
Thank God for the 2:40 wake-up call.
Thank God for cell phones and for sons who know they can call any minute of the night, and do.
Thank God for the unexpected, un-budgeted work bonus that appeared this week that allows me to fly him home for the weekend.
As I was slugging back coffee and reading a couple of favorite blogs, Varda's post this morning gave me that catch-in-my-throat moment:
"He will get this; get there, in his own way, according to his own internal timetables. Remember: it's all inside, waiting to burst forth, someday. When he's ready.
And until then?
Patience. Love. Support.. ."
Yes. This. For awesome autistic 10 year olds.
And for broken, wounded, and still amazing almost-20 year olds.
Not that vague sense of surfacing for a moment before settling back under the wave of unconsciousness but the total, unmistakable alertness, as if waiting for the voice to come out of the darkness.
At 2:45 this morning, the phone rang.
Except, it didn't ring, because I'd silenced it for Sam's choir concert last night and forgotten to turn the ringer back on. If I hadn't been awoken five minutes earlier, I'd have never have noticed the light emanating from the crack between the nightstand and the face-down phone screen.
It was my son.
1000 miles away, homesick, aching, sick-sick, heart-broken, stressed, exhausted, unable to eat, unable to sleep, on the edge of the precipice and on the breaking point. I was on the phone for the next five hours.
Thank God for the 2:40 wake-up call.
Thank God for cell phones and for sons who know they can call any minute of the night, and do.
Thank God for the unexpected, un-budgeted work bonus that appeared this week that allows me to fly him home for the weekend.
As I was slugging back coffee and reading a couple of favorite blogs, Varda's post this morning gave me that catch-in-my-throat moment:
"He will get this; get there, in his own way, according to his own internal timetables. Remember: it's all inside, waiting to burst forth, someday. When he's ready.
And until then?
Patience. Love. Support.. ."
Yes. This. For awesome autistic 10 year olds.
And for broken, wounded, and still amazing almost-20 year olds.
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