My husband and I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how our middle son’s brain works. A rare medical diagnosis dangling over the head of a 6-month-old baby sends you into a tarot card level tantrum of predictions. But you’re not psychic and you can’t predict the future, so you set out as best you can to live in the present.
And that's where your brain comes in. A way station without a road map. A holding tank where only so much information can be taken in before it seeps out in brave, brazen, and sometimes hilarious ways.
Remember those public service announcements some years back warning of the neurological effects of a brain on drugs. They showed an egg in a frying pan suggesting that a brain on drugs is like an egg frying in a hot pan. Well, if that is your brain on drugs, circa 1987, the special needs mom brain is an omelet cooked well and filled with ham, cilantro, bell peppers, more ham, hell, some bacon too, three cheeses, onions, spinach, roasted tomatoes, and more cheese.
It's a brain filled with so much goodness onlookers begin to question how does she fit it all in, yet like any delicious dish of beaten eggs cooked until firm there is only so much this brain can contain before it needs to take a moment and fold over.
Will he walk, will he talk, will he live, will he love, will he have friends, will the world be kind, will we have enough money, will we have enough time? Sleep.
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