Breathing

One of #1's autistic qualities is that he thrives on routine and schedule. When his schedule is thrown off for an extended period of time, it is hard for him and he gets overly tired and won't sleep. We went on vacation for a week to New Braunfels and stayed in a river house with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. We had a great time, but the change in routine, sleeping in a different bed, and the general noise level from so many people was hard for him. We had a great time, but by the end of the week #1 was just plain exhausted and irritable from staying up late and not napping.

Yesterday, when I picked up the boys from school, #1 was asleep in the floor. He hadn't slept during nap time and had just run out of steam. I picked him up and carried him to the car, while the other boys walked beside me. He slept all the way home and I put him in bed, thinking he would sleep for about an hour or so.

He woke up at 10 pm crying, so I went upstairs to try to coax him back to sleep. I laid down with him in his bed and he clung to me for dear life. Knowing that I was going to slide out of bed as soon as he drifted off to sleep, I tried to remove his death grip so that I wouldn't wake him when I left, but he clung even more tightly. His face was just above mine and each time he breathed I felt his exhale blow lightly on my face.

Hearing and feeling him breathe reminded me of the time in the NICU when both he and his twin brother couldn't breathe on his own and ventilator machines had to do his breathing for him. If you have ever read the poem "Footprints in the Sand," that time in my life was my footprints moment when I knew God was carrying me. Suddenly, I didn't mind the death grip hug and I was still listening to his breaths, thankful to God for every inhale and exhale.