Parenting
By Claire Johnson
Updated: Sep. 14, 2020
Originally Published: March 11, 2018
Last night, I found myself in that familiar dream again, where my son embodies the essence of “normalcy.” It’s a dream that resonates with every parent of a child with special needs, and I’m no exception—I’ve had it countless times. This time, however, was different; my son was a teenager. He’s only five, but perhaps I’ve been binging too much of that show Speechless while running on little sleep, which thrust me into a future version of his life.
In this dream, he was peacefully sleeping in his upgraded queen-sized bed. I entered his room to wake him for school, and he was still the boy I know—the one with cerebral palsy and limited speech who relies on a wheelchair. I had brought his outfit—jeans and a sweatshirt—ready to help him change.
As I nudged his shoulder, he somehow rolled under the bed, an odd twist of dream logic that allowed a teenager to fit into such a small space. I crouched down to peek at him, and he brushed his hair aside, letting out an exasperated, “Mom, give me a minute!”
Dreams like this generally take one of two routes: either he has always been typical, or he experiences a miraculous recovery, as if awakening from a long coma. This time, it was the latter.
I dashed out of his room, calling for his dad and siblings, but only my mom appeared, ever-present in my subconscious. Together, we watched as he ambled toward us, slouching in a plaid shirt and jeans—definitely not the clothes I had picked. He looked like a typical teenager.
But he was still my son. He beamed, aware that he was defying expectations. He gave a casual wave, prompting tears to stream down my face as I rushed to him. My mom theatrically swooned, fanning herself with dramatic sobs.
“But how?” I asked in disbelief.
He shrugged casually.
“Seriously?” I grasped his arm, now tall enough that I had to look up into his eyes.
“I don’t know. I just woke up this way.” He offered that sweet two-dimple smile from his younger days and patted my arm as if I were a little old lady.
The dream soon faded into a stark reality—a conversation with his pediatrician, who seemed more concerned about this sudden change than anything else, while my walking, talking son lounged with his legs draped over an armchair, munching on cereal.
I didn’t want to wake up from this one. It felt so vivid.
But reality beckoned—it was a Monday, the anticipated snow hadn’t arrived, and he had preschool and speech therapy to attend. He was still five, not fifteen.
As I laced up his shoes over his leg braces while he enjoyed his Cheerios, I shared the dream with him. I recounted his height and everything he had said. He listened intently, watching me kneel at his feet as if taking mental notes for the future.
I know that more dreams will come, and my hope will never wane. Someday, he might stand taller than me and share his thoughts in fluent words.
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In summary, dreams can reveal our deepest hopes and aspirations for our children, even when reality feels far from those visions.
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