I forget
Sometimes I forget that my Happy One was born addicted to somewhere between four and seven different drugs coursing through his five-pound body. He suffered through withdrawals for a solid four months. He didn't learn to roll over until his first birthday. He didn't hold a bottle or feed himself until he was eighteen months old. He didn't know how to process pain until he was twenty-nine months old, just two months ago. He went through six months of feeding therapy and still struggles with gagging. He is two and a half and at times the specialist refers to his maturity as that of a nine month old. He takes everything in. He struggles to get thoughts out. He has impulse control issues. He has had all the therapies: occupational, speech, physical, and we're in the beginnings of behavioral. He has his very own case manager to help me navigate the world of special needs. Sometimes I forget that he’s adopted and that his genetics are not mine. Sometimes I forget that even ...