I paused in shock at his request. It was a bright morning, just one of many beautiful days weíd had that summer in 2000. But a feeling of unreality washed over me. With those simple words, I had entered the twilight zone.
For almost two years before that day, my son hadnít spoken much at all, hadnít searched out my eyes, hadnít really done anything that a normally developing child would do. He had lived in a separate universe, a never-never land of lost boys and lost parental dreams. My little cabbage boy.
Suddenly, as spectacularly as my son had disappeared, he was back with me. I didnít react. There were no big moments of hugging or kissing him. In general, he didnít care for demonstrations of affection. So I didnít fuss. Frankly, I didnít quite believe what was happening. My husband was getting ready for work, and so I just went through the usual motions of making breakfast, while wondering if this would last. Wondering if I was dreaming.
I got out his paints and his easel. What had happened? What had brought my son home to me?