How to Rip Off a Label

"I don't get it," I turn the pages and desperately try to understand the fascination with a green room, a rabbit and a painting of a cow jumping over the moon. Toy house. Mittens. Socks. And that old lady "whispering hush."

My husband shrugged. He didn't get it either. Why was this book beloved by so many? What was the big deal? There wasn't much of a plot and the character development was awfully flimsy.

Although I didn't know it then, I would be delivering a 5 lb. baby boy in a matter of days. It would be only then that I would get it.

***
"She's a daydreamer. It is hard to get her to focus." My mom nodded at what she already knew.

"I know. She's always been like this. She gets lost in her own little world." My mother had no idea the weight of her words.

We left the meeting with a label and a referral for services. I was now "special." I had a label and "it" had a name. ADD.

My mom refused the drugs, claiming that I would eventually grow out of it as if it were last year's woolly winter coat. Although I don't know if I grew out of the condition or if I just learned to manage it, I never grew out of that label. While over time the label no longer existed in my records, it wrapped itself around everything I tried to do. It became my crutch, my excuse, my reason to begrudgingly welcome failure. ADD--my chaperone to mediocrity.

***

"What are you thinking?" I watched her as she followed JR around the room. She'd tilt her head, sigh, scribble in her notebook, and then finally, she looked to me. What the hell was she thinking?

"Well, I'm just taking note of the things he is and isn't doing, you know, what's right and wrong for a two-year old." The sound of her voice was like a needle working its way through the back of my neck. I cringed. She was the developmental specialist assigned to our case. Since JR was a month early we qualified for special services. Although I didn't think we really needed them, I was eager for any help, any guidance that I could get. I was focused on speech--the extra help would be a bonus. But the look on her face, the haughty tone in her voice. What was she talking about?

JR was born a month early. Totally healthy except for having to endure time under a lighted blanket. He hit every milestone. No delays. I never expected him to be a genius, to play a concerto at 3 , recite the periodic table at 5, enter college at 10. I just wanted him to be where he was supposed to be, whether he got there early, late . . . didn't matter. I just wanted him to get there.

His speech was my biggest concern. While he was a physical dynamo, his verbal skills consisted of short grunts and my personal favorites, high pitched, groans and whines. I got it. He had better things to do than speak. He wanted to run, to jump, to make an attempt to land in the ER before 3.

"What are you thinking when you watch him? I only ask because you have a look of concern on your face." I prompted her to respond. I leaned in closer and searched her expression.

"Autism," she replied. And with that, the oxygen was sucked out of the room.

***
He doesn't have autism. I'm 99% sure. The doctor was 100% certain, shaking his head as I told him of the events leading to his "diagnosis."

Regardless, we live in a world of labels. What will be his label, I wonder? What word will bind his hands and cause him to second guess his ideas, his dreams, his abilities?

***

A wise friend once asked me, "What would you do if he did have autism?"

My mind was a swirling vortex of bubbled questionnaires, meetings around tables with "experts" scrawling notes, laborious hours of therapy, and the countless fears that he may never belong.

What would I do?

Love him. Intensely. Unconditionally. No matter what.

***
JR wraps his legs around my body, his head rests on my shoulder as I lean back into the chair and open the book.

GOODNIGHT MOON.

"Moon!" JR shouts.

"Yes, baby. MOON!"

"Goodnight comb and goodnight brush."

"Mush!" he shouts.

I squeeze him tightly in my arms.

"Yes, baby. Goodnight mush."

I hold him in my arms, gently rubbing the arch in his back. His words silence the nagging fears and doubts--in him, in me.

The labels fade into an imperceptible whisper.

"Goodnight noises everywhere."