Developmental Playgroup will be the Death of Me!

Actually, that’s a big fat lie.  But the “oh crap, you mean we’re HOME now and I can’t swing from the therapy swing or jump into the ball pit?!” meltdowns are probably taking days weeks years time off my life.

For those who don’t know, which is just about everyone because I’ve never expressed this in a public form, my beautiful rambunctious bundles of uniqueness are developmentally different.   (I refuse to say “delayed” when there are a multitude of milestones each have hit earlier than average, like PX walking at 10.5 months and operating a DVD player by 20 months).  They are as special as they come, and early intervention is just the start of our journey.

PX, my constantly twirling two-year-old, was diagnosed with sensory processing disorder and is now awaiting further evals from an OT and developmental pediatrician to determine if he is on the autism spectrum.  If I were a betting woman (which I probably would be if I weren’t a broke-ass), I’d doubledown on PX having ASD.  Rizzle, the diva at not even a year old, has a set all her own of sensory difficulties and oral problems thanks to an attached upper lip frenulum.  Because inheriting my big ol’ overbite with beaver teeth wasn’t enough.

But the most amazing thing is, my children have no idea they have these differences and difficulties.  They are blissfully unaware, happily spinning in circles or hooting at Curious George or carefully studying the mechanics of illustrated vehicles.

And this makes me happy, and reassured that although they will undoubtedly throw me for loop after lemony loop, we’ll all be fine.  After all, we can just blissfully twirl in circles, clapping along to Maroon 5, when the going gets tough (and at least two of us will be stress-free).