Hope through the years....

Birth: The joy of meeting my son was immeasurable and my hopes for the future all shiny and bright.

One year: Tired and bewildered, I exclaimed, “he is a late developer like his brother”. I hold onto the hope that he will crawl sometime in the immediate future.

Two years: Feeling unhappy that I have been dragging my boy to therapies for a year and don't see much progress. Am becoming aware that something is off kilter. I don’t recall any hope.

Three years: The Neuro Specialist said, "don't worry, Mummy, he will outgrow it by the time he is five". Hope raises its head. The Ed Psych handed me some notes on autism as I leave her room. Bullshit, I thought... and put the notes in a drawer.

Four years: Sad, exhausted and cutting myself off from people. That is all I remember.

Five years: No recall. No hope.

Six years: Trying hard to smile. Pretending that I am fine. False hope.

Seven years: Finally, after the stress of no schooling options for my boy, we start our own school. Hope flickers.

Eight years: Life is busy. Still running around trying to squeeze as much information into Nick as possible. Hope is moving with the beat.

Nine years: Addressing the sibling issues. We are all affected by the demands of our roles. Hope shrugs.

Ten years: I feel lighter. I smile more. Life is getting better. Hope enfolds me within arms.

Eleven years: I need to get closer to my boy. I need to play a better, more deeper role. Hope is screaming "do it!"

Twelve years: I am smiling broadly, laughing out loud, loving life. My boy is moving forward. Hope is walking alongside me.

Thirteen years: Relaxed and enjoying a slower pace of life. Mostly happy. Forever hopeful.

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Di lives in a house full of males... two teenage boys, one hubby and two dogs. Due to her youngest son being autistic, she owns a small school for children with autism and developmental delays. Di blogs over at the Bright Side of Life.