One day, I'm telling all of you that I don't feel like what happened to Max is a tragedy and how much he—and Britney Spears— amaze me. The next, I'm talking about sobbing at the train station over him. Which is what happened tonight.
I had a jam-packed day at work, stayed late and by the time I headed home, the kids were already asleep. So, yeah, I wasn't in the most cheerful of moods. As I got off the train, I heard a kid yell, "DAAAADDDDY!" and then I saw a little boy, Max's age, dash into his father's arms and hug him.
I just lost it right there. Literally burst into tears, covered my face with a hand and walked briskly to the car.
It was a deep-rooted pang of despair that Max isn't that little boy who can so clearly say "Daddy," that Max isn't that little boy who can so easily run to his father, that Max isn't that little boy who can throw his arms wide open for a hug.
The feeling passed in a couple of minutes; by the time I was driving home, I was fine. Things just hit me sometimes. And then I go back to being my usual upbeat self.
I guess it's part of the deal of having a kid with special needs. You know?
Coming up tomorrow: How I won my battle with the insurance company and got them to pay for a hot tub!
* OK, I didn't get the hot tub. This blog may also suffer from delusional disorder.
** Please direct any complaints about making fun of people with multiple personality or delusional disorder to Sabrina.
