Grayson woke up today absolutely crying his heart out, like I’ve not seen him cry in a long, long time. And he cried like this for a solid hour.
Jon and I both believe he’d had a nightmare. A dark, scary, nasty dream that he couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps he thought he saw a monster under his bed, perhaps he dreamed he was alone. I’m not sure he even comprehends what a monster is.
This is a boy who doesn’t feel pain, who can sit in a nettle bush and you’ll have no idea until you change his nappy, a boy who didn’t even flinch for any of his immunisations.
Tears, actual tears, are a rarity.
Grayson, being contextually non-verbal, cannot yet tell me what is on his mind, I can only work through a process of elimination, the way you would with a newborn baby, not a five year old child.
First on the list, check whether he is wet or soiled, despite knowing that his sensory processing challenges mean he has no realisation of when he is, it might be that he’s now realised and doesn’t like the feeling.
Next I try to cuddle him… absolutely not. I’m pushed and kicked at, the crying doesn’t stop.
Verona then, entirely of her own accord (bless her heart), fetches his cuddly toy, a drink and a yoghurt, and offers each in turn to him. All three are vociferously rejected.
Can a mother feel any more helpless? Seeing her child in such distress; screaming, writhing and lashing out. When you are powerless to help and haven’t a clue as to why it’s happening, it’s hard.
Still, we indulge in a moment of self pity, then pull up our big girl pants and carry on, never giving up on verbal communication.
Mark my words though, some cold and dreary morning my sweet, sweet boy will crawl into my lap and say, “Mummy I had a bad dream.”. I’ll soothe away the memories of the monster under the bed and make it all better.
We will get there.