Your 4th year

Dear Henry,

It's been a year of firsts for you, baby boy. (Oops, sorry. You're a big boy now.) It's been a year of firsts for me too. From your first days of school to your first antibiotics, it's been quite a ride.

This spring you had your first illness that scared me. You had a fever (high by my standards, low by the medical profession's) for 4 days and did nothing but lay on the couch or in your bed. You wanted me beside you all day and all night, you ate nothing, and Daddy and I had to make you drink. The nurse on the phone assured me you had a virus that would pass, but that wasn't very reassuring as I watched your already tiny body lose weight.

Still, the pain of seeing you with a fever pales in comparison to other pain I've felt this year. For months you screamed each time I left you at Southwest Elementary, and each time I closed the classroom door behind me before the tears streamed down my face. Some days I didn't have the energy to turn the key in the ignition to return home; I simply rested my head on the steering wheel and cried to Jesus. Eight months later, it still was not without trepidation that we walked down that hall. I saw you turn inward the closer we got to the door.

Not knowing why you hated Southwest is what made my job so hard.  I would give any amount of money, any of my limbs, to know why. Is it because the day was long? Because some of the children were nonverbal and harder to engage? Oh, baby, if you could only tell me. But I knew going somewhere each day was important for you, and you were always happy when I picked you up. You even talked kindly about your teachers and classmates. So, I practiced "tough love" every Wednesday and Friday.

Church preschool was different, thank the dear Lord above. You loved Tuesdays and Thursdays and did from week three of the school year. The first two weeks you were shy and uncertain, but you quickly lost inhibition and began running into the room without a look back. Compared to the peeling-you-off process at Southwest, this was a mother's dream. I loved seeing you gain independence and joy at school. Sometimes you didn't even want to go home and instructed me to turn the car around so you could go back!

Your teachers taught you things I could never teach you myself. Or, at least, they taught you more efficiently. You surprised me the day I saw you using the mouse at Daddy's computer. Though you were completely adept at using touch-screen technology, the archaic mouse had you stumped for quite awhile. How did you finally master that task? I don't know how Mrs. Peters did it, but you learned it in her classroom.

You also learned sequenced behaviors, like washing your hands and putting on your jacket. I think, perhaps, I would have been putting your jacket on you when you were 8 years old. It just didn't occur to me to let you do it yourself.

The day you came home singing about the five senses was a wonder. Not that I was surprised you could name the functions of the tongue, eyes, ears, nose, and hands, but I never would have thought to teach that particular phrase - "the five senses" - as a concept. (I teach big kids, not small kids. Maybe one day I'll be useful to you, kiddo.)

This year you've learned to take turns, to ask for help, to follow instructions. You know how to introduce yourself ("Hi, I'm Henry!") and answer the question, "How are you?" ("I'm doing well.") It seems your conversational skills grow by the day and your funny phrases constantly make me laugh.

You have thrived on daily schedules and knowing when you go where. You love to ask, "What's next?" Emerge, where we do speech and occupational therapy, is one of your favorite places to be. With their help, you are now more tolerant of arts and crafts and much more creative and imaginative in your play. But your favorite activity at Emerge is definitely the big gym full of super-cool equipment. Lately, you love "the cloud."

You said the blessing with enthusiasm at school, hands folded beneath your chin, and you love to hold Mommy and Daddy's hands as we say our blessing at home. You will finally let me read some from your Jesus Storybook Bible, though you associate it with Jonah, not Jesus (thanks to an iPad app that tells you the story of Jonah). You continue to love singing and dancing and increasingly enjoy helping us around the house.

Trains are still your greatest passion, followed closely by reading. You narrate the story as you play with trains or watch videos of trains, just like the Thomas shows. (Look out, Michael Brandon. Your job may be in jeopardy!) Daddy and I watch in wonder as you use new words and phrases.

As we read before nap and bedtime, you always ask for just "one last book." You point to many words and ask, "What's that spells?" You already have many sight words and are hungry to know more. Just recently I hung a brand new poster in your playroom, and you quickly read it. Your thirst for books is a special gift from God to me; I just know it.

But I can't leave out your excellent math skills! You are doing basic adding on your fingers and recognize almost any number up to 100. We haven't started subtraction yet, but I know you will pick it up quickly.

Finally, this year you moved to our brand new house, probably your forever house. Daddy and I, as well as your teachers, prepared you as well as we could for the big transition and held our breath. The preparation worked! You seemed to think we owned 2 houses, but you didn't care to go back to the old one and were happy as a clam in your new house. The playroom, especially, was a delight. When I picked you up from school, you always asked if we were going to the new house and ran right to your playroom once inside.

Love, it has been an amazing year that has taken us places Daddy and I never imagined. It has been the hardest journey of my life, yet the most rewarding. You are the reason for the joy. You are the reward. With every decision we made, I prayed God would protect you if we made mistakes. You know what? You have been magnificent. You outshine the brightest star and continue to be a gift like no other.


All my love,
Mommy