The Dish

A spiritual journey into raising a child with special needs.

BY PATRICE BAVOS

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AN HOUR EARLIER I’D BEEN GAZING at hints of light entering my room. This daily ritual towards a small window aligns itself with the holiness of yet another miraculous beginning. 

So how does a moment of sheer joy tumble into a vortex of exhaustion and guilt? 

Every day my son Christian is up by 4:30am. I begin to tense from the thud of heavy walking and monotone sounds coming from the floor above. By 5:00 am he has gathered his clothes, showered, and then returned upstairs for a second round of repetitive behaviors commonly known in the special needs world as ‘stimming.’ With eyes fixed and flailing arms he walks rigidly across the room. This ‘Frankenstein-like’ walk has been going on since the age of three. He, too, is preparing for his day. As my calm starts to fray, the basket begins to fill – all the work, therapies, supplements, research, reading, hoping… and we’re still here. 

“You look nice today and your hair smells good, too!” I say to Christian while entering the kitchen. “Thanks, Mom.”

“How about you make eggs today? C’mon I’ll show you.” 

“No, Mom, I’ll make my snack.” Thankful for his contribution, I say “Okay.” 

“Christian, can you get the small dish with the fruit on it?” Within a few moments I hear “Oops!” As the dish hits the floor, I ask in an even tone, “Did it break?” 

Days earlier, I had been thinking about that dish. A gift from my sister, it was the perfect size for two hard boiled eggs, a peeled orange, or a handful of nuts. “It didn’t break, Mom, it’s on this side,” as he shows me the large chip on the bottom. “That’s okay, we can still use it.” I turn it over to find another large chip on the rim. “No, we definitely can’t use it for food, but I’ll find another use for it.” 

This crashing moment rode in tandem with the impermanence of all things. Love the dish; it too will be gone some day. 

Looking at the scattered chips on the floor I say, “Christian, get the dustpan and brush and pick this up, please.” Eyes rolling, he grinds out a long, annoyed “Ahhhhh.” In disbelief, I let out a long, winding scream while lambasting him for not understanding my feelings. I yell, “Make your own breakfast!” and pluck an egg from the boiled water and run it under the cool tap. “Here, you peel it!” as I slam it on the counter. He says nothing. He calmly throws it in the garbage. I’ve got to show him love before he leaves. 

So, how does this work? The emotional residue from his 18th pandemic-style birthday, the angst of guardianship, my Mom’s death, our country, and over the years a list of things I cherished, destroyed by a child who could not help himself. This and more, all culminating into one ferocious scream added to the guilt of damaging my son, again. 

“Christian, accidents happen, it’s okay. It was your attitude that made me upset.” Ringing in the background, I can hear readers say, “All teenagers behave like that, especially boys.” This may be true, but everything relating to a special needs child is one-hundred fold, including the sadness, worry, and sense of loss touching every crevice of your being. 

I hold him tight and twice kiss his cheeks. “Okay, love, I’ll see you when you get home.” Returning to the kitchen, I find everything in order, including the stove turned off. I realize I hadn’t turned it off, Christian must have. I am blown away by this flash of normalcy. 

After school, I tell him how proud I am of how he handled the morning ‘situation.’ “Yeah, Mom, you shouldn’t have done that.” 

“You’re absolutely right, Christian.”

With every step of awareness, each in our own way moves closer, closer to Love – chips and all.

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