AMACon3 30-Day Drabble Challenge

Extraordinary

PROMPT #15: Maine, Alden, and the way things should have been. --- This may be a difficult topic for some, and I tried my best to approach it with sensitivity.

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Today is the second Monday in June. If things had happened the way they should have, today would have been Ziggy's first day of school. I would have dressed him in a cute little uniform—a crisp white shirt, shorts that are a tiny bit too big and that go all the way down to his chubby shins, and an adorable matching vest. His hair would be combed neatly back, he would be carrying his patent owl backpack with his crayons and baon tucked inside, and he would pause to wave at me before entering his classroom, the dimple that he inherited from his father deepening deliciously in his cheek.

If things had happened the way they should have, Ziggy would be learning his ABC's, 123's, and days of the week along with a dozen or so other kids his age, singing nursery rhymes with his loud, clear voice, running and jumping and screaming with laughter on the playground during break time.

But things rarely happen as they should—almost never do, in fact.

Instead, Ziggy doesn't go to school like other "regular," "normal" kids. Instead, we stay home and bake cookies together while we listen to children's songs on my iPod, and he ends up spilling half the container of flour all over the floor and throwing a tantrum, shrieking unintelligibly at the top of his lungs. As he screams at me with furious tears streaming down his bright red face, I feel like he would tell me he hates me—if he could. But Ziggy can be hard to understand sometimes when he speaks—he communicates in a language all his own. They break my heart, these temper tantrums of his, but I know by now not to take them personally. When you have a child like Ziggy, you learn to get used to these things. After he's had his afternoon nap, we'll be friends again and he will once again gaze at me lovingly out of his wide, vacant eyes, spaced just a little too far apart.

Ziggy probably knows more about ants and other insects than maybe most kindergarten teachers. He can spend hours just sitting at the dining table, observing a line of ants marching across in an orderly fashion with a discipline that he lacks and has difficulty mastering. But he tries—I know he tries so hard.

Some days, when he is feeling well, we lie on our backs together in the backyard, the cool grass dampening our shirts, and we watch the clouds as they lazily drift by. "Duck," he says, pointing with his plump fingers. "Rabbit. Car. Klenka."

I turn my head to look at him, an amused smile on my face. "What, Ziggyboy? What was that last one?"

"Klenka," he firmly repeats. I let out a small laugh and nod. Klenka it is, just one of the many whimsical creations that come from Ziggy's strange but wonderful mind. It isn't easy for my little son to understand some of the most basic things that other children do, but I'm thinking it would be impossible for other kids to understand everything that Ziggy does.

When he was born and the doctor called RJ and I into his office and spoke to us very kindly—but very seriously—about what to expect, what kind of challenges might come our way, I went through an entire spectrum of emotions so dizzying I almost stood up in my seat and yelled, "Stop the rollercoaster, just stop!!"

Long after we left the doctor's office and put our newborn son in his crib for the night, I lay wide awake in bed, tossing and turning, and torturing myself with a relentless stream of questions. Was it my fault? Did I not take good enough care of myself when I was carrying him in my stomach? Should I have stuck to a stricter diet, exercised more? What was life going to be like for him when he grew up? For us? For RJ? How was my husband taking it? Could he handle it? A true millennial who spent much of her time on the internet, I'd read plenty of stories before about families falling apart once a baby with special needs came into the household. Not everyone was strong enough to handle the situation.

I should've never doubted RJ, not even once. He is the most wonderful, most amazing father, always so patient and calm. He loves Ziggy so much, and is ridiculously proud of him, and insists on celebrating and bragging about every milestone in our son's life, even the smallest achievements. On particularly tough days, when my heart isn't strong enough to go on gracefully, RJ's takes over and carries us all over the mountains and hills.

Ziggy isn't expected to live very long. He has too many conditions, and is prone to too many infections. It can be hard to swallow the pity that well-meaning folks offer us in huge servings, because we don't feel sorry for ourselves. It can be confusing when people put on big bright smiles when they meet Ziggy for the first time and coo, "Isn't he special??" because aren't all children special? Sometimes I can almost see the eggshells scattered on the floor as people tiptoe around them, struggling to find the right words to say, wanting to be sensitive and politically correct, but not knowing how. I understand. I was the same way once.

Having our first child didn't turn out the way we thought it would. Life with Ziggy isn't easy. But then again, the best, most precious, most heartbreakingly beautiful things in life that are really worth having never come easy, do they? I lean down and softly kiss my boy's forehead as he dozes peacefully on the living room sofa. After all, it's only fitting that a once-phenomenal star should also have an extraordinary, phenomenal son.