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Please send my son home exhausted! Dear Teacher, Here's my heaven sent child. He's now in your expert hands. Please don't take your eyes off him for a second. He requires strict supervision and I do pay my school taxes! I'll be home, with the phone attached to my waist, but unfortunately I'm changing the number as of nine o'clock this morning and will get it to you as soon as possible. Please send my son home exhausted! Note to Teacher, following day: Dear Teacher, Well I'm happy to see he made it through the first day. I just didn't realize school was only an hour long. It seems my school calendar read the day ends at three p.m. not ten a.m. A typo? I regret my son didn't appreciate the confines of your classroom. Please keep him today, at least until I clean up all the scattered cereal. P.S. You forgot to send him home exhausted. "Please send my son home exhausted!" were the words I wrote in a letter to my son's teacher on the first day of kindergarten. They were words I used throughout his school career and still recall, though he's now eighteen. My unique sense of humor has kept me going each day, loving my challenged child. A mother's love is supposed to be automatic when you first lay your eyes on your newborn, but I never realized this love could be tested beyond extraordinary measures. Our love bonds have rode some wild roller coaster rides through the years. I begged my husband for this third child and after "winning", I couldn't wait for his birth. The pregnancy was foreshadowing, with abnormal blood tests and inconclusive scans, an extreme case of chicken-pox when I was four months along, and rapid growth of my abdominal girth. The doctors reported everything was normal. I talked to my son while rubbing my gyrating belly, "Hey, what are you trying to do to Mommy?" On a disruptive Christmas Eve, I was twisting and turning with the "pleasant" pangs of labor, waiting for my over-extended and roadmap in appearance abdomen, to finally vanish with the birth. My obstetrician had the nerve to laugh along with my husband, while the hospital personnel were making bets about the size of my soon to be born son. I swore if one more person placed their hands on my churning abdomen I would deck them, but I ended up being too busy to struggle off the table and follow through with my threat. Kyle was finally born at ten pounds, six ounces of pure atomic energy. I realized he was going to be different, from the first sound of his lusty cries while he squirmed around on my chest. Urgent crying demanding immediate attention and patience were not to be among his virtues. Kyle was brought home to our loving family. However, I began complaining to his father the minute he crossed the threshold. "I can't take it anymore! He never shuts up! He wants to nurse all day! He wants to be rocked all day! He wants to stay awake all day!" Ear splitting screams could be heard behind the nursery door, and this baby didn't suffer from colic. Believe me, I checked with his pediatrician, numerous times. His father would calmly reply, "You'll have to handle it. He's your son, relax and love him." And so I handled it from his conception up to the present day. I still am pushing those boundaries of a mother's love for a son. I can't tell you how many times I have wanted to quit this motherhood duty, because of this once adorable boy and now handsome youth. Yes, he was born an adorable being, in a superhuman physical state and carrying a genius intellect. My son doesn't have a physical disability that you notice, unless you stare closely to catch his non-essential hand tremors or avoiding eye movements. If you listen, you would detect a slight robotic and pervasive manner of speaking. I thank the Lord he doesn't have to deal with severe physical challenges. But other times I have also asked the Lord for forgiveness for my selfish thoughts, when I felt it would be easier if he exhibited more outwardly physical symptoms, especially when it comes to explaining to outsiders. They see a robust boy screaming at sound barrier breaking levels, and a perspiring mother struggling to hold onto his squirming body. Maybe a tantrum is cute in a two year old, but not when a child is ten years old weighing eighty pounds of fury. I was often viewed as an incapable mother who couldn't control her spoiled brat of a child. My son has a disability that affects his life, my life, his father, siblings and every person who enters his life throughout the years. He has Asperger's Syndrome; encompassing hyperactivity, obsessive- compulsive behavior, rage and defiance, mood swings, self-isolation and social immaturity. Try outrunning any marathon runner with hundred pound weights attached to your ankles and compare that to dealing with my son's worst days. He also suffers poor motor control and nonstop hand tremors. A case of severe environmental allergies complicated the situation when he was younger. You can add a genius level I.Q. that makes him an inquisitive, questioning person, from the time he gets up until the time he passes out. And for some reason my doctor won't prescribe me drugs! When Kyle was in a juvenile playgroup, we were asked to "politely leave." He had to be first, win at every game, and would knock down any child who was in his way. The scornful eyes of those over-protective mothers have left burning imprints on my back. I was shunned, to play with my child alone, attempting to nurture, love and mold him just the same as his siblings. This was a total waste of my time because Kyle never followed the smooth path, when the uneven path was more exciting. He loved to disappear and get involved in a personal science project, which would make the atomic bomb seem like a July Fourth sparkler. A con artist could take classes from my son, due to the fact he could literally out-wit you with his amazing brain. Somehow he graduated from high school after years of intervention, with honors. I cried, proudly waiting for our diploma with a head full of gray hairs. My son rarely shows affection or expresses words of love towards others, besides our pets, and the return hugs I have received from him are few and far between. At times I have found myself digging deeper in that mother's "well of love" for my son, just to get through some particularly rough days. When I felt like I hit rock bottom and was at a loss over the next step, somehow some warm and funny memory of survived antics would flood over me, revitalizing me. Recently we moved "up to the mountains" and it is hectic getting the house in order and the doing the endless yard work. I recall the letters I wrote, "Please Send My Son Home Exhausted!" Being Kyle's mother, I frequently research information about his disability, searching for any method to help our situation, but laughter seems to be the best free and sedating medicine for me, especially since I can't put myself up for adoption. And somehow I know Kyle would find his way back to our new home; even if I attempted to lose him by dropping him off in the middle of some dark woods at night, then screech off in the car with my lights off. You see, even after all our adventures living with his disorder, my son and I still have an unusual love bond, overcoming any minor obstacles we cross. Claire Luna-Pinsker is a retired pediatric nurse, a wife, and mother of three young adults, Kyle, Ian and Lalena. She now fully devotes herself to writing. She has published multiple fiction, non-fiction, and life essays, in addition to a novelette entitled “Ebony Blood”. and several literary shorts to be published in 2007. Her humorous nature, imagination, and love for music assist with her creativity. She also enjoys capturing nature’s scenery and wildlife with her camera. Contact her at Lunarose22@hotmail.com or at her websites www.freewebs.com/romantichouse/ and Musicoflovewriter.com.
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