Looking back, we can see that something was wrong. No, I don’t mean the hospitalization at 2 weeks- I mean the autism.
David never cuddled like Andrew. At four months old, the only way we could get him to stop crying , was to lay him in front of the train going around our Christmas tree. He always loved to be held tight, almost squeezed.
As he approached two, more and more seemed “off.” The constant repetition, the perfect row of matchbox cars, the lack of speech, the fits- oh the fits. I would sit on the floor, put him between my legs and give him a bear hug. I don’t know who I was trying to protect more- him or me. Mommy’s arms were safety. Mommy’s arms never let go.
At 8 1/2, mommy’s arms are tight squeezes, deep pressure, safety when the world is spinning out of control. In mommy’s arms, David can hide- escape from the world. In mommy’s arms, nothing and no one can come close without permission.
I would have never guessed that my insistence at holding him, squeezing him tight and loving him when he didn’t want to be loved or even know what it meant would some day become his security.
Today, at his 2:20pm meltdown- I sat on the floor like so many times past, pulled him in my lap, wrapped my arms around him, rocked him back and forth, squeezed as tight as I could squeeze, and quietly whispered in his ears that it will be alright. Then after dinner, when he wasn’t feeling himself, back into my arms he crawled- to be held as tight as possible and hide his face from whatever out there made him need to hide his face.
I remember holding him when he was younger, tears streaming down my face as I rocked him praying that he would KNOW and FEEL how much I love him. That he would know what love means. Today, in the midst of a rocky afternoon- I realized, that to him my arms are love, security, safety. Those many years ago, when I’d hold him in a bear hug to keep him safe, I taught him that my arms are safe for him.
Oh Teri. ((hugs))