I recently experienced a vivid dream about my son, one that painted him as a “normal” teen, which is a vision that many parents of children with special needs, including myself, have encountered at some point. The dream felt particularly unusual because, in it, he had transformed into a teenager, despite being only five years old. Perhaps it was the influence of my late-night binge-watching of a show that focuses on family dynamics, combined with a lack of sleep, that propelled me into this imagined future.
In the dream, he was peacefully asleep in a surprisingly spacious queen-sized bed. As I entered his room to wake him for school, he appeared as the son I know—diagnosed with cerebral palsy and using a wheelchair. I brought his clothes, a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, ready to help him dress.
When I nudged him awake, he unexpectedly rolled beneath the bed as if the laws of physics were altered in my dream. I crouched down to see him, and he brushed his hair from his face, exhaling a sigh before saying, “Mom, give me a minute!”
Dreams like this tend to follow one of two paths: Either he has always been a typical child, or he experiences a miraculous recovery. This particular dream leaned toward the latter scenario.
In my excitement, I dashed out of his room, calling for his dad and siblings, only to find my mother there instead, a constant presence in my mind. Together, we watched in awe as he approached us, embodying the essence of a typical teenager, slouched and casual in a plaid shirt and jeans that I hadn’t picked out. He smiled knowingly, as if he recognized the rarity of this moment. I rushed to him, tears streaming down my face, while my mom expressed her joy with exaggerated sobs.
I questioned him, “How did this happen?” He simply shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. I just woke up this way,” flashing that familiar two-dimpled smile from his younger days, patting my arm gently as if I were an elderly figure.
As the dream progressed, it took a disappointing turn, shifting to a conversation with his pediatrician. The doctor expressed concern over this sudden transformation, while my son lounged nonchalantly, cereal in hand, seemingly unaware of the gravity of the situation.
Eventually, I woke up. It was a Monday, and though the anticipated snow had not fallen, reality called me back to the present—my son had preschool and speech therapy, and he was still five years old, not fifteen.
Later, while fastening his shoes over his leg braces as he munched on Cheerios, I recounted the dream to him. I described how tall he was and how he had spoken. He listened intently, as if he were storing this information for future reference.
I know I will continue to have these dreams, and I will never cease to hope that one day they become reality. Someday, he might stand taller than me, and perhaps he will share his thoughts with me in clear words.
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In summary, dreams hold significant meaning, especially when they reflect our deepest hopes for our loved ones. As we navigate the realities of special needs parenting, we continue to aspire for a future filled with possibilities.