As a parent of a child with special needs, I often find myself wrestling with dreams that depict a different reality for my son. Recently, I had a particularly vivid dream where my son was “normal” – a term that carries so much weight. In this dream, he was a teenager, even though he’s only five. Perhaps my late-night binge-watching of Speechless combined with sleep deprivation propelled me into an imagined future.
In this dream, I entered his room, now furnished with a queen-sized bed, to wake him for school. He was still the boy I know, living with cerebral palsy and using a wheelchair. I had his outfit ready—jeans and a sweatshirt—prepared for the day ahead. When I nudged him awake, he rolled out of bed in a way that could only happen in dreams, managing to fit his teenage self into a surprisingly small space.
As I squatted down to check on him, he brushed his hair aside and said, “Mom, give me a minute!” Dreams of this nature typically unfold in one of two ways: either he is the typical child we’ve always envisioned, or he has miraculously recovered, like someone awakening from a long coma. This particular dream leaned towards the latter.
I dashed from his room, calling for my husband and other children, but only my mother appeared—likely a manifestation of my subconscious. Together, we watched in disbelief as he walked towards us, embodying the essence of a typical teenager, dressed in a grungy plaid shirt and jeans, not at all what I had chosen for him. Yet, he smiled knowingly, recognizing the significance of the moment. I rushed to embrace him, tears streaming down my face, while my mother dramatically swooned nearby.
“How?” I stammered, bewildered. He shrugged casually, “I don’t know. I just woke up this way.” His familiar two-dimpled smile from his younger years soothed me, as he patted my arm in a way that felt like a gentle reminder.
As the dream transitioned to a more sobering scene, I found myself in a conversation with his pediatrician, who suggested that this sudden change might warrant concern. Meanwhile, my walking and talking son lounged nonchalantly, eating cereal—a stark contrast to the dream’s earlier joy.
I eventually had to wake from this dream, which felt achingly real. The day awaited, with preschool and speech therapy on the agenda, and my son was still just five, not fifteen. As I helped him put on his shoes over his leg braces, he munched on Cheerios, listening intently as I recounted the dream. It felt as though he was absorbing the possibility of a different future, taking mental notes.
I know I will continue to have these dreams, and I will never cease to hope that one day they might become reality. Someday, he may stand taller than me, and perhaps he will share his thoughts effortlessly.
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In conclusion, dreams can serve as a window into our deepest hopes and fears, reminding us that while the present may be challenging, the future holds endless possibilities.
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