Everyone has a way they respond when they are trying not to cry. I don't mean the kind of crying that happens when you watch Steel Magnolias or a hallmark commercial at christmas either. I mean the kind of crying when your body heaves with sobs and you lay down on your bed and bury your face in downy scented pillowcases. You know that hot feeling that creeps up around your eyes? I try rapidly blinking, then I try opening my eyes up very wide and puffing out my cheeks as if that will help. Then I scrunch up my nose just before the tears break the levy of my lower lids and pour down my face. I breathe deeply so the shudders won't turn into sobs. This has happened too many times this week.
A dear friend told me these are happy tears, that our lives will change dramatically soon. In 8 days, Chandler I will be leaving on a plane (Now John Denver is playing in my head, sorry if it is in yours too) to meet his new best friend. Oh, Chandler, you have needed this for so long. A friend to be by your side when no one else knows how. Maybe we will all sleep a bit better, breathe a bit easier. Maybe my heart wont break every time I see a child turn away from you at the park. The potential here is enormous, but after the happy rush fades, it gives way to fear. A deep, dark terror that refuses to relinquish its grip on me. I want to do this, I need to do this. But I am having flashbacks of my flight home from the autism conference. Will the engine noise send you into a tailspin? Will we get through security? After we get to California, will I get you back on the return flight? Can I do this alone? Most of my life I have had someone by my side, and I followed. Now I need to do this without help, without reassurance. Again, I am jumping into the deep end of the pool hoping I come up for air at least a few times. God help me, I am gonna do this. And everytime fear comes back I will look at your face and know that you would tell me "Mom, I need a friend. I need you. We can do this."