About a month ago, B and I were in the waiting room of the pediatric therapy center M goes to for private occupational therapy each week.
There was a boy there, a couple of years older than B, waiting with his mother for his appointment.
It was clear that the boy was on the high functioning end of the spectrum. His social skills were a bit immature and robotic; things that my delightfully non-judgmental B didn't care about at all.
At one point, the boy said to his mother (while looking at me), 'Is that his Mom?'
Before the mother could answer, B did it for her by saying, 'Yes. That's my Mom. She cries a lot!'
Fortunately, the Mom looked at me and said with what I believed to be complete honesty, 'That's okay. I do too!'
We laughed about the waiting room at a therapy center being a safe zone for such frankness. Perhaps B, even at the age of three, also sensed that because I have never ever heard him say something like that before that moment! (and I better not ever again!)
Naturally I fixated on this statement for a little while. Does he really think I cry a lot? Do I cry a lot?!
Don't we all cry for our children at times, special needs or not?
That afternoon in that waiting room has definitely stuck with me. I try to keep my emotions a tiny bit more in check in front of B. But I don't entirely regret the fact that I so often wear my heart on my sleeve. It's a part of who I am, and hopefully B will always know that it's not because I'm crazy (well, not too crazy, at least) and instead that I just really, really care.
Ahh, insecurities. Aren't they a bitch?