So here I stand, at this fork in the road. I can't see down either path very well, maybe just a few yards. But here I stand, with my son's hand in mine. Again. He trusts me. Trusts me to take the right path, to chase off the bears, to blaze a way so that he can dash ahead of me.

Every few months we're at a new fork in the road, having guessed on the previous path. Every few months it's something new. And every few months I rail at the heavens, begging the universe for help. Please, I need someone on my team, someone to hold the lantern as I head down the path with my son. The forks in the road are starting to feel like a circle.

Sometimes I feel his grasp slip, and I grab on tighter. I can't let go of him yet, we're not on solid ground. If I let go, I'll lose him, and I don't know if getting him back is possible. Once we're on solid ground, I'll let go, even push him forward, but right now I can't. He is too valuable.

On both sides of the paths there are diagnoses, disguised as wild animals: ADHD, sensory issues, anxiety, eosinophilic esophagitis. All of them plotting against him and his gifts. But I may have found a guide, someone to hold the lantern for us. She'll do some testing and conduct some interviews, and we'll learn if our oldest son is twice-exceptional, and to what extent. As an expert in this field, she'll guide us to the correct path and hold that lantern high as we start the march down that path. She has done this before, for other children wanting to run ahead. And once the path is cleared, I'll release his hand and we'll stand together and watch as he dashes ahead, at peace with the wild animals that surround him.