...leaps and bounds, dinos and dares...

 Leaps and bounds, folks...leaps and bounds!

But a handful of hours ago...one turned page prior...Henri conquered 'the jump'. Two feet in the air...aloft...

After months of trying and failing...after months of frustration and consternation...after months of my staring at 'the goalpost' and watching it move ever backwards.

Until, it didn't. Until he didn't...or rather...did...did jump. By himself. For himself. At a time...in a place...by a manner of his own choosing.

A handful of hours later...and that page is done...

and another lay empty, waiting for the story of today.

(There are hours yet to come...the day only halfway through...)

And the page is already full!

Because today, I followed his lead (a bit) and decided to use his 'tools for success' to 'up the ante': I took those dinosaur puzzles that he'd jumped over to such awe and delight, and placed them atop one of the balance beams we'd tried so unsuccessfully to master.

Why not? Why not believe in magic? Why not hope that a handful of dino puzzles might just be the missing ingredient in the spell?

~~~

And, oh!

Friends...

He leapt!

I led him to the obstacle, and he...well, he sparkled....glee and anticipation and the enticement of challenge....

He sparkled...and chirruped a little battle cry...and he leapt!

Up and over...two feet in the air...weightless flight...and then landed on the other side.

A grin...from ear to ear and far beyond.

My shriek...applause...and laughter.

And then he turned right round and did it over and over and over again...each time with more abandon. A master of magic!

~~~

And then...

He looked at me with a glimmer in his eye...and took the puzzles off, laying each one carefully in a row, next to the balance beam.

A brief pause...to kneel down, raowring as he tapped on each dino with outstretched finger. Then he backed up...crouched down, pushed off...

Up! Up! And over!

I let out my breath in relief that he'd made it across without stumbling, or landing wrong, or crashing into the table.

Again and again he jumped...right over those magical dinos of bravery.

~~~

And then...

He stopped. Clapped for himself and chortled at me.

Straightened the balance beam.

Stepped carefully onto the end...and walked across it.

Oh, the pride on that little face!

The laughter bubbling up as he walked, back and forth...balancing...dinos below, at the ready to catch him in misstep.

~~~

The page is full. Perhaps the chapter is as well.

Leaps and bounds...

Dinos and dares...

And a magical little boy who mastered them all!

...leap of faith...

 For my future self, who will want the memory tied to a specific time:

Today, he jumped.

Both feet in the air.

Up, and over.

(On his own timeline, of his own accord, over an impediment of his own making.)

He'd set out his dino puzzles...all in a row...blocking off the doorway.

He trilled out a little lilting call for attention and, sure of the audience, jumped up and over. A self-congratulatory clap... then quick look up for praise.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

~~~

For months now, I've been 'failing' in my pt/ot efforts. The gains, impossible to see. I'd given up, a month ago...packing away the equipment "for a summer break" and revising the schedule to exclude those hopping and balancing and jumping drills.

And today? Today he jumped!

Today, it all came together for him.

By him.

Today he reminded me of the lesson I first learned from his big brother: all the pieces will settle where they are intended to, when they are intended to.

Have faith...stay the course...

Teach...and then let go...

And he'll jump when he's ready!

...but the first of many...

 A spark:
...of something new
...of fiery determination
...of limitless curiousity
...of exponential growth
...of change

Closing the very first chapter in the book of you, as you graduate from Early Intervention.

Just shy of 3, and already laying the foundation for a beautiful life of learning and growing. I'm so proud of all your hard work and your resilience.

You, little Henri, are a trailblazer...and I can't wait to see all the new vistas we'll explore together.

Happy Graduation!

 Progress.

There's a loaded word.

There's progress in achievement, right?  Where every step forward is counted as forward motion.

There's progress in action.  Literally one step (or movement) toward the conclusion.

There's progress along paths and journeys and travels and trajectories.

There's progress in pregnancies, and education, and careers.

And then there's progress...the loaded version...the word used when achievement is not in reach...when the development is stalled or so slow it might as well be frozen. 

That progress is the word that makes the reading of its reports an exercise in grief:
Progress Reports.
Namely, those associated with special education.
Reports where progress is noted and tallied and far too often...halted.

Where that bold black "P" just stares up defiantly from the page...day to day...month to month...sometimes year to year...never, ever turning into an "A" for achieved.

That progress is like a spill of black ink...gradually staining the page till everything is soaked in the lack of movement...the lack of development...the lack of achievement.

Sometimes that "P" is a lie.  A statement of progress that was happening at one point and has stopped since.

Sometimes it's a white lie...true in its basic definition but not accounting for the understood nuance of progress as defined by change.  Incapable of accounting for, or of, change that is so minimal...so gradual...as to be indistinguishable in the days or weeks or months or years.

"How's he progressing with that?", is a question that's been posed to me far too many times of late.  A well-intentioned expression of interest and care...I know...but one that's a literal pain in the neck.

(I carry my stress in my neck and shoulders)

"Any progress yet?", is another.

Both make my eye tic a bit, as I struggle to find the perfect, neutral expression with which to respond "No change" without those words imparting something negative to the solicitor or stirring up some feeling of defeat in me. 

The checkbox next to the goal reads "P", as it has for months now.

I expect it still will, months from now.

Perhaps that "P" isn't meant for me.  Perhaps it only exists as a clinical observation...a way to box into the structure of typical development a boy...this boy: brilliant and neurodivergent and expanding exponentially in ways that don't tick boxes or fulfill milestone expectations. 

Perhaps the progress report is just a piece of paper with ink on it.  Not a complete picture...not an accurate reflection...not even a realistic observation.  One hour a week...a clinical hour at that of 45 functional minutes or so...hardly equates to a full understanding of a child's skills~behaviours~intellect...of a child's progress. A snapshot that's been altered for size and contrast and saturation...but comes up pale and blurry against the real thing.

Perhaps progress is a misnomer, after all.  A word used in place of ones with more negative connotations...such as average or basic or ordinary as applied to development.  Perhaps progress is simply what's expected, and when it comes up against something different, it stops...like a computer program when it encounters functions beyond its coded parameters.

Perhaps the best answer is the easiest:

"At his own pace."