A horrific day
Today, it was official. My son is now officially "developmentally disabled". When he had his surgery at 4 months old and the surgeon said he was "fully recovered" a month after the surgery, I should have known that was a bold faced lie. Of course, the surgeons don't see the babies after the surgical scars have healed, so they don't see the secondary damage and scars of the problem.
So my son will be going into the Special Ed program for his speech disability. I'm absolutely crushed and devastated as a mother. If I could cut off my lips and give them to my son, I would. If it required I donate my voicebox, I would. Heck, all I ever do is send emails these days anyway.
After being told by the therapists that Josh is going to be with them for the next 2 years, that it's going to be a long hard road, and it's going to take daily work and serious commitment on my part, I did what every mom has done at least a million times: I went home and beat myself up for being a bad mom. As usual, we blame ourselves for these things. After all, we can't blame our kids - especially when they aren't even 3 years old yet! So I kept running through my mind - why didn't I try harder to get him to nurse? I could have tried for a month longer. I could have forced the issue with blowing earlier. I could have called early intervention earlier. I could have demanded therapy as early as 18 months, after all, I knew there was a problem. I could have demanded an X-ray earlier than 4 months old. Over and over and over again. ANYTHING I could think of that could have prevented this. But alas, we all know where this line of interrogation goes - only to depression. So I decided if I was going to beat myself up over something, it should be something worth the flogging, and I made death by chocolate brownies. I'll flog myself again when I can't fit into my pants.