I first saw him in a dream when I was halfway through my pregnancy: brown skin with a red undertone like cedar, black curly hair, and large, curious eyes the color of strong Black tea.  My soul recognized him, instantly.  We were swimming deeply underwater.  He seemed oblivious to me, as he happily swam in a large circle.  I’d follow him- sometimes pausing to simply look at him: my body slightly chilled, my heart warm and beating fast.

I lay still to try to slow my breath and heart after I delivered him on the night of December 6.  I didn’t look down to see him; I didn’t pay any attention when the doctor announced that it was a boy; I allowed everyone else to meet Zachary because we had already met months ago that night deep in the water.

When the doctor handed him, Zachary, to me, he looked just as he had that night, except then he was peaceful and happy.  Being born had clearly made him angry.  From the start, Zach, was loud, demanding and difficult.  From the start, the two of us engaged in a cycle of standoffs, tense negotiations, and then eventual progress.  My love of him pushed me to be a loving, determined fighter.

I didn’t have siblings growing up.  It had been just me and my mother; so the arguments and act-of-will that most families engage in were foreign to me.  But the first lesson that Zach taught me, and there have been many, is that love means sometimes fighting with the person you love because you love them (and because every now and then you know what’s better for them).

Our first battle was in the hospital. Zach would attack my breast like an angry racoon: latch on incorrectly, become angry when he couldn’t get any milk, and then become angrier when I tried to readjust him.  Zach felt that he knew best about how to breast feed.  A wet nurse gave me a lesson that day that set the tone for much of mine and Zach’s relationship: “You have to be in charge, li’l lady.  Firmly grab his head and guide him the way he needs to go,“ she advised. I successfully did as she told me then; but probably continued to guide him in life too firmly and for too long.

Shortly after our breast feeding days had faded, Zach’s legs were getting those yummy folds of baby fat that I had to spread apart to ensure got cleaned, and I was feeling more comfortable in my new role as a mother; an uncomfortable quiver told me that something wasn’t quite right with Zach.  Yes, he was perfect, as all our babies are, but he wasn’t “on track.”  Like many new moms, I studied baby milestones and benchmarks, and my baby wasn’t hitting any of them.  Yes, he was making sounds; but his mouth wasn’t properly forming consonants.  Yes, he liked going out, but he wasn’t interacting with other kids much.  Yes, he was holding his spoon; but awkwardly.  Just when he started sleeping through the night; I stayed up every night pouring over online articles and diagnosing Zach with every condition possible.

Family members told me I was a crazy, first-time mom; at the same time the public school system suggested that I put Zach in a self-contained special-needs, pre-school that had kids with severe cognitive and physical limitations (completely non-verbal, blind, and deaf).  No one seemed to have a solid understanding of what was going on with Zach; so I focused every effort on understanding him.  No, actually, I focused every effort on changing him.  I studied whatever I could find and studied my baby.  I knew that he was brilliant. I could see it in those same, curious, Black-tea colored, eyes I gazed into the first time we met.  I thought that I just needed to firmly grab hold of him and the situation; and guide him.

From toddler-hood through fourth grade, I had Zach in various therapies six days a week (that had to be paid for out-of-pocket because early-intervention wasn’t as embraced by insurance back then).  I did hours of play therapy at home; forcing him to have to adjust-to have a flexible brain, which wasn’t his nature.  I openly broke out into an ugly cry when he played duck-duck-goose at the end of a camp I had enrolled him in because to do so involved following multiple directions, waiting his turn, cooperation, touching other kids, and running (all things that didn’t come naturally for him).  I fought the elementary school to allow Zach to use fat pencils when they were insisting that all kids use the skinny ones (he will use the skinny ones one day, I insisted. He’s simply not ready now).  When the kindergarten teacher had all the parents write down what our goals were for our kids that year, I wrote, “Make one friend” because while he was already adding and reading, he was still was socially awkward.  And then I volunteered in the classroom 4 out of 5 days each week to watch him interact and then practice social skills at home.

Like that first day with breast feeding, I forced Zach to do the opposite of what his brain wanted.  He liked familiarity; so we did a new activity every weekend, traveled extensively every summer, tried new foods all the time, watched new shows, read different books, played different games.  I was constantly keeping him off balance.  Zach didn’t want to socialize much or have others touching him, so I enrolled him in soccer, basketball and gymnastics classes and cringed as he would just stand frozen while other kids ran around him; but I took him week after week after week.

I was driven to “fix” him.   Truthfully, I was oftentimes embarrassed.  It was tough having the kid who was the worst performing, especially when there are some parents who constantly brag about the accomplishments of their kids. Going to basic school performances or to back-to-school night would cause me severe anxiety. Light conversations with people about our kids would make me stutter (what do I say – the truth?). I would get depressed when I learned of yet another birthday party that he wasn’t invited to (because he was the weird kid after all). I blamed myself for anything I may have done wrong while I was pregnant.  I hated myself for not producing a perfect kid; and then I hated myself for not thinking he was perfect. I was psychologically tortured.

Then, thankfully, in time, through little nudges, the universe helped me to get over myself and my ego and helped me to discover genuine and full love.  At some point, I took myself and my feelings completely out of the equation; and just loved Zach completely for who he was and for whomever he turned out to be.  We kept with the therapies and classes, but more with focus on them helping Zach be the best Zach could be.  And he was enough.  Actually, he was my greatest blessing.  No one had taught me more. Loving him meant embracing him; and releasing my expectations of who my child should be. Once I relaxed, I could fully see that.

I stopped trying to fix him; and realized that it was me who actually needed the most fixing.  I stopped guiding him so firmly; and loved him more.  I stopped gripping the handle bars, and let him have his own proverbial bike, let him guide it, and then eventually took the training wheels off of it.  In time, it was like a loose chain on a bicycle: Zach kept coasting, but then, eventually the gears caught hold in the chain and my baby started pedaling.  And he pedaled hard.  The kid who wasn’t coordinated enough to clap in kindergarten, made his freshman and junior varsity basketball teams in high school (at a huge, competitive school with over 2,000 kids).  The kid who seemed trapped and silenced by his tongue won’t stop talking and runs a popular vlog (he has five times more followers than I have).  The kid whom I prayed would make one friend his kindergarten year has plenty of them now — is extremely social now and constantly goes out with friends. 

I am thankful for the years of early intervention; and know that Zach wouldn’t be where he is today without it.  I do wish, however, that I had learned earlier the peace that came with embracing him and his path.  I spent many years fighting for Zach to be “normal,” for him to hit preset milestones; instead of just seeing and enjoying him.

Raising Zach has been my most arduous journey.  I wouldn’t have thought that having a child graduate from high school would be such a big deal (everyone in my family dating back multiple generations has a college degree after all); but it is – and it was.  It was a momentous day for me.

• 

• 

• 

Zach’s graduating class was huge.  From my seat, it just looked like a sea of random red caps and gowns – one not distinguishable from the other.  But somehow, I spotted my baby.  My soul recognized him, instantly.  He was oblivious to me as I yelled out his name.  He just happily swam about in his large circle of fellow graduates.  I will always continue to gently guide him; but I know that it’s time for me to let him swim.  He knows how.  And I will simply follow him from afar: my body slightly chilled, my heart warm and beating fast.

•