I’m at the ice rink in silent tears.
What started out as a good idea to my son has progressed into something he says makes him miserable. I told him to at least give ice hockey a try, get on the ice, see how it feels on his new skates. But when he gets his mind set on something sometimes there’s just no turning back. His mind is made up. His sensitivity to noise and stimulation is probably on overdrive right now. The echoes of the ice rink, the weird sensation of all the equipment poking his body. He says his helmet itches. I try to remember how much is going through his head right now, even though I get so frustrated. “Don’t you want to at least try? Look at how much fun the other kids are having!”
But you know what? He hasn’t left the rink yet. And sometimes, that is the win.
And the best part and perhaps the thing I cling to, is everywhere we go, there is always somebody trying to help. There is always somebody willing to stand next to him and ask him if he’s OK. Or sit with him and let him know he’s not alone.
Since I’ve been here, three teenage boys have gone out of their way to chat with my son. This is probably not what they signed up for when they volunteered to help teach beginning hockey. But I wish I could tell their parents how immensely grateful I am. How my son may not say it, but they are making such a difference.
My son will probably not grow up to be a professional hockey player; that’s not why were here. But at least he can try new things knowing that there are good people that want to help him along the way.
And maybe one day, my son will pick up on the actions of the people who helped him along the way, and he can be one of the helpers too. Maybe that’s why we’re here.
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