A Boy Named Sid

My dad has affectionately nicknamed The Bear "Sid" for SID = Sensory Integration Disorder. Actually, the more accepted teminology is now Sensory Processing Disorder, to keep from SID being confused with SIDS.

We had our evaluation on Tuesday, and the occupational therapist (OT) concluded that Bear would benefit from therapy sessions. It was clear to her, based on her evaluation and our answers to her questions that he is a little sensory-seeker. Thankfully, the husband went with me, and he's been doing a great job trying to communicate and talk to me about feelings and the like. I've been saying for the last few weeks that the best news I could hear is that the OT would look at us and laugh and tell us to go home, that there were no problems here! Get outta here, crazy lady! However, when we left, and he asked how I felt, I told him that I was actually relieved that someone could see what I have been seeing, and that I felt validated and assured that I'm not crazy.

The OT, Katie, is a delightful woman. She was able to allay many of my worst fears and anxieties, and told us that she was going to do whatever she could to keep The Bear on her schedule (rather than the other OT) because he is "adorable" and we are "awesome parents". I mean, who wouldn't love her?

I asked for a recommendation for a developmental pediatrician, and received one, and have heard nothing but good things about her. I've been debating whether or not to take The Bear in, but after talking to The Husband, we're leaning toward getting an appointment. Why not, right? My bestest friend, whom I mentioned earlier, who is about to pop with her second baby, has worked with special needs kids for years. She is the most learned and educated and compassionate woman I know when it comes to kids of all shapes and sizes who have any kind of special need. She also advocates for early intervention, so I think we're going to go ahead with the developmental pediatrician.

In a fit of anxiety, brought on my a conversation with my mother, who, without actually saying it, makes it clear that she thinks I'm completely overreacting, I cried to The Husband.

Me: "What if I'm wrong, what if I'm totally overreacting and he's completely normal?"
TH: "What if you are?"
Me: "Then when he's 18 he's going to hate me for labeling him as something he wasn't and wonder what was wrong with him that we thought he had special needs and develop a complex and never be able to trust another woman all his life!"
TH: "You sweet, sweet girl. He's not going to care! Even if this is wrong, he gets to go to a cool gym and play with some rocking toys and have a blast!"
Me: "So, he won't hate me forever?"
TH: "Of course not. He'll just be glad you cared."

Awww.