The kind of motherhood that I have is likened to a teabag. I never got to know how much power I have till I was steeped in hot water. 

I am a “special mother” - a mother to a child with special needs. 

To be honest, I am not proud of my story because my situation has left me sulking in nearly two decades. I have been sulking over a decision that gave me overcast skies since it was confirmed by the neurologist-pediatrician (neuro-pedia) that it will take a lifetime to deal with my child’s disorder. 

He was diagnosed with mild Autism Spectrum Disorder, cognitive developmental delay, and speech impairment when he was about three years old. 

I sought the help of a private center that specializes on therapy for kids in the spectrum. My new reality was that my day’s paycheck was equivalent to two hours of fees for his therapy. I signed up for a two-hour therapy session without knowing where to get the sustenance for the next sessions being a solo parent. To make ends meet I asked that my son be accommodated twice a week only. I accepted as many side jobs as possible to keep up with the fees until the three-month trial program was over. The program director, sensing I was skimming the bottom, handed over a packet of the program’s so-called syllabus and explained to me how to guide my son perform the rest of the activities at home.

My motherhood journey took off exactly the opposite of spectacular.  I carped about my situation most of the time while I was keeping a balance between work, tutorials for my son at home, the side jobs to attend to, and other pursuits. I was drained, frustrated, on the verge of gnawing hopelessness. 

But like a teabag steeped in hot water the potency of motherhood permeated. 

I have come to be just like my mother who could take in as many blows and punches in life, crying a bit here and there, cursing at high heavens for being cruel and then going on bended knees at points to beat the heart - mea culpa. 

Only good mothers know how to fight for their children. Only great mothers understand great love. 

POTTY TRAINING 

My son, Rainforest, was about five years old when I started his potty training. His mental age is three years behind his biological age. From birth to five years old, he was wearing diapers. We were already on the extra, extra large (XXL) size. So it became a concern that one day it would be too difficult to find sizes bigger than that if I continue to wait for the day he learns to use the toilet. 

He refused the plastic potty I bought; the one in bright colors to stimulate him and a drawer underneath where the “p-thing” drops so I could just pull it out and clean up easy-peasy. He shunned the device. He was afraid to sit on the chair with a hole in the middle. 

It was frustrating because he would want to do the “p-thing” instead on the paved floor. I gave up and just allowed him to relieve on the floor in the toilet. Every time I clean up I would rant at such a simple task that takes a lot of effort from his end to learn.

One day, I thought of demonstrating to him how I do the “p-thing.” Children who are in the spectrum do not establish eye-to-eye contact in early age. He would look away but I take cues that he is observing. I would show him how to sit on the toilet bowl, push the “p-thing” out of one’s bowels, wash up, and flush out, leave the bowl spic and span, wash hands clean, pat dry with towel, put on the underpants, dab with alcohol before he can touch other things in the house. At the start, he would leave so much mess because he would dip his hands in a pail of water, or worse he would wash from a dram of water full to the brim. I would throw fits out of compounded frustration. I would blame myself for such a bad situation. I would cry to vent out my anger. 

He struggled at holding the dipper in one hand, the soap in the other hand. So, in the next years I had to hold his hand in mine while I soap up clean the arse myself as he gets a “feel” on how to do it appropriately. 

Children under the spectrum  are awkward, they get confused easily with tasks that require coordination; so, while we are teaching them self-reliance, it is important to supervise them closely.

PUBLIC SPACES

I received praises from colleagues and friends for not confining my son to the house. Wherever and whenever I get the time, I tag him along, even to my campus journalism lectures at schools, and to some of my field assignments. I took him to public spaces. We went to movies together, I showed him how to behave, sit still, take his food even in a dimly lit area while enjoying the film feature. He got to experience how things work in a public toilet. 

I took him to parks and playgrounds and asked the kids to bear with him. His identification card as a person with special needs is worn with a lanyard like a school ID, so the parents of the other kids would also help tell the children that “Kuya Rain” should share with the slide, the seesaw, the swing. 

There was that one incident when he hit a boy down the slide. The boy wailed at the sight of a teener who whizzed by and hit his nape. The boy fell flat on the ground. To my horror I ran like the wind to help the boy to his feet and apologized. I explained to the eight-year-old boy that the 14-year-old guy who hit him is under the spectrum, has the mind of a child, and that he has challenges in sensing space, direction, including obstruction in his way.

The boy shouted at me, confident with his protest: “But he is too old for the slide - and too big - and too heavy.” 

I retorted, “but it is your nape that was in the way of the guy’s feet. Had you moved away quickly, he would have not reached you.”

The boy whined and whined, while my son went back up the slide, down the slide, back and down, back and down - the slide all to himself. 

I held back laughter. I went laughing inside for explanations impossible to convey any further, much more to an eight-year old; for a situation where the forty-ish in me had almost given up on. 

If only the boy knew how I wished, in supplication, that wherever our feet touch, the earth could just gobble us up to somewhere - to anywhere but not here. 

I held back peals of laughter that sounded more of a looney’s roar coming in ripples in my gut. I held it back so strongly it burst in a fart. 

WRITING ONE’S NAME

It took seemingly an eternity and back to teach my son how to write his own name.

I trusted no other way but the trace-the-dots technique. He began with letters and numbers written in dots meant to be traced by beginners.

But for two-year-old Rainforest, he did not have the patience to trace the dots daily. I persisted, though, convinced that maybe at three years old he would be able to at least write the first four letters of his name. I narrowed down my expectations and just let him be. Whenever he gets tired of the paper work, I let him tinker his toys. He is most delighted when tinkering the battery compartment of his toys, he would open it with the use of a screwdriver. That was how I knew he was an observant guy. He learned how to use a screwdriver from my brother who repairs electronic devices. I do not intervene but I do supervise him closely while he would change battery cells of his toy robot.

Back to the worksheets, I would write in dots his name, middle initial, and surname. With that in mind, he would at least be able to sign his school card, I hoped; and if he gets lost, under a circumstance, and people find him and let him scribble, he would be identified properly. 

He went through the exercises almost daily. At about that time he turned five years old, I found a writing exercise sheet where there his full name was scribbled on top of his doodles. Neatly. 

I turned to my sister, a grade school teacher, if she happened to assist Rain write his name on top of his paper; my sister said nay. 

I dropped on bended knees, tears rained. My lips overflowed with prayers of gratitude.

I am a teabag steeped in hot water. I never knew I had so much power in unleashing the special ability that a person under the spectrum has until I gave birth to one, and nurtured him ably. Differently.