Letting go of expectations
I expected my son to be a daughter.
I expected him to sleep through the night at 7 weeks like his older brother.
I expected him to calm down when I picked him up from his crib.
I expected him to enjoy playing with other children.
I expected him to be happy.
I expected life with my second son to be different than it is.
By the time my son Jason turned three, I knew he was not like other children. Sights, sounds, and smells overwhelmed him. My expectations of becoming a stay-at-home mom (I worked full-time with my first son) became exactly that: We stayed-at-home. Three people in a room was one person too many.
Wondering if there was some medical explanation for his constant unhappiness, I took Jason to our pediatrician, Dr. Kyle. Fortunately there was nothing physiologically wrong with him, but the doctor suggested that Jason may be suffering from an undiagnosed neurologic disorder, and we began the search for calming activities.
I explained to Dr. Kyle that each day, when I noticed Jason’s anxiety and irritability escalate (usually after some over-stimulating activity like picking up his brother from school), I would play Mozart, Bach or Beethoven softly in the background. Dr. Kyle immediately recommended music therapy. .
Looking for activities we might both enjoy, I bought tickets to the symphony. We arrived early. A few people mingled in the lobby of the symphony hall. The massive windows allowed filtered sunlight to stream through, making the glistening chandeliers unnecessary. I debated whether to find our seats immediately or wait until closer to the performance time. If we sat too early, Jason would become restless. If we waited too long, the crowds of people might overwhelm him. We chose the former.
Not many children attended the symphony but those who did were dressed in their finest clothes, especially the girls. My son could not be convinced to wear anything other than shorts, t-shirt, and sweatshirt. Hey, we’re here, I reminded myself, and I let the clothing expectation go.
As the symphony played, Jason slowly leaned into my shoulder, less for comfort, more to escape the person on his right who might brush against him. By the second movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Jason was asleep. I aroused him at intermission, thinking a treat would be welcomed but he chose not to leave our seats.
During the second half of the performance he stayed awake, but he climbed under our seats and curled into a ball. He remained there until the end of the performance. Thankfully the patrons next to us merely smiled.
Driving home from the concert, I asked my son the question no parent should ever ask because the answer will rarely be what you expected.
“Did you enjoy yourself today?”
“I hated it.”
“Oh, but I thought you liked classical music.”
“I do. It’s all the people I can’t stand.”
Never one to give up easily, I took Jason to the symphony again a few months later. This time he fell asleep so soundly that he peed all over himself and the plush velvet upholstery.
Not at all what I expected.
