When my son was two years old his daycare provider told me that he would never speak, make a friend, or ride a bike. She later went on to say he would never hit a baseball.
She told me at my car after I had buckled my son into his car seat and closed the door. She had followed me out. She was determined to tell me her predictions.
In the eleven years that have since passed I have replayed that conversation a million times in my head.
It broke me initially. Robbed me of hope. Then angered me. Finally fueling and motivating me.
In the months that followed, Cooper was diagnosed with nonverbal autism. Later we were told he was severe. Or level three.
He still carries the same diagnosis. Always will.
His life is different than most. So will his future.
And that’s okay. Different. Not less than.
He rides a bike now. It has three wheels. And he chooses it at choice time at school. His para sends me videos sometimes.
He plays Miracle League Baseball once a week all summer. He doesn’t own a glove. And his favorite bat is blue.
He hits off a tee. And he doesn’t need any help to grip the bat anymore.
He runs the bases with such spirit and joy you can’t help but smile. Oh, and he rarely runs alone.
He has two friends. They met at school. And two brothers as well. And a Grandpa. And a mom and a dad. And we typically take turns running with him.
It’s pretty special if he chooses you. Because he gives these high fives that start up high and then go low and end in a chest bump. There is nothing better.
I’m sharing this with you because I just picked Cooper up from his first play date.
When I told him after school today about the play date he gasped and clapped and jumped.
I was so nervous. See I knew he was in good hands. I wasn’t worried about that part.
I just prayed for so long that it would happen and as the moment stood before me I felt overwhelmed with love for him.
We are connected me and this boy. I don’t know a life without him attached to me. But I am learning that one day there will have to be.
He waved to me when I left and blew me a kiss.
I thought of that daycare provider as I drove away. Her words running through my head.
Never ride a bike. Make a friend. Speak. Hit a baseball.
She was wrong. In the most beautiful way. But what was good is the lesson she taught me. That I carry with me daily.
These kids, the ones that the world sees as imperfect, are timeless, brave, capable, and worthy. And I get a front row seat as he proves her wrong.
