As a mother, I often find myself dreaming of a world where my son embodies what society considers “normal” or “typically developing.” It’s a common experience among parents of children with special needs, and I’ve certainly had my share of such dreams. This time, however, the dream took an intriguing twist—my son appeared as a teenager.
In my vision, he was peacefully resting in a queen-sized bed, far removed from his familiar twin. I entered his room to wake him for school, and at that moment, he was still the little boy I know, grappling with cerebral palsy and using a wheelchair for mobility. I had brought his clothes—jeans and a sweatshirt—preparing to change him.
However, when I nudged him, he rolled under the bed, a peculiar feat for a teenager. I knelt down to see him, and he pushed his hair back and sighed, saying, “Mom, give me a minute!”
These dreams often unfold in one of two ways: either he has always been typical, or he experiences a miraculous recovery akin to someone awakening from a coma. This dream leaned toward the latter scenario.
In a rush of excitement, I called for his father and siblings, but only my mother appeared—an ever-present figure in my subconscious. Together, we watched as he ambled toward us, slouching in a plaid shirt and jeans, a typical teen. Yet, he was still undeniably my son, flashing a smile that acknowledged how extraordinary this moment was. Overwhelmed with emotion, I sprinted to him, while my mom theatrically wept in joy.
“But how?” I managed to ask.
He simply shrugged. “I don’t know. I just woke up this way.” His grin mirrored that sweet two-dimpled smile from his five-year-old self, as he patted my arm like I was an elderly lady.
The dream then shifted to a pragmatic conversation with his pediatrician, who expressed concern about this sudden transformation. Meanwhile, my walking and talking son relaxed in an armchair, eating cereal.
I woke up reluctantly, facing the reality of a Monday morning—no snowfall, preschool, speech therapy, and the reminder that my son is five, not fifteen. Still, as I helped him into his shoes over his leg braces, I recounted my dream, noting how tall he was. He listened intently, almost as if he was taking notes for the future.
Dreams like these will continue to come, and I will always hold onto the hope that one day, he might stand taller than me and share his thoughts with ease.
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In summary, dreaming about my son walking and talking captures the blend of hope and longing that many parents of children with special needs experience. These visions not only reflect a desire for change but also serve as a reminder of the love and determination that drive us forward.