I am currently addicted to two chemicals: oxytocin and endorphins. The thought struck me like Chris Brown the other day, that these two buddies will not remain mine in abundance forever. After I stop nursing Little Brother, for example, I won’t feel the hormonally-amplified rush of love that accompanies a feeding session. On the other hand, I’ll fit into my shirts. And once my knees and ankles hand in their resignation notices, I’ll hang up my running shoes and say goodbye to my days of runner’s highs, as well as the blisters and cramps that come with them.

The notion of the eventual absence of two of the things that keep me going? It slowly started filtering into the rest of my moments and alerting me to the fact that–SPOILER ALERT–this, too, shall pass. All of it. These days are vapor, really, and when these days are actually nights and I’m stumbling toward LB’s cries, the idea that This Won’t Last Forever is good news. When The Kid is pitching a tantrum on the floor because I tell him it’s time to wash his hands and eat the food I made for him with love, the idea that This Won’t Last Forever is good news. The problem is that I’ve been focusing on all those things–the things I wish would pass–as hurdles to be gotten around and left behind. I’ve turned good news into a Coming Attraction with a countdown. So, lately, I’ve tried to allow these moments to be highlighted by their transitory splendor just to see how such a filter changes their appearance.

Answer: there is so much beauty I’ve missed.

When The Husband and I picked the boys up from gym childcare last weekend, TK’s teacher said, “I need to talk to y’all about something.” Not this shit again, I thought. She went on to let us know that TK had, during his visit that day, systematically removed toys from the other kids’ hands so that he could place them on one particular patch of carpet, where he was arranging a centralized toy station. TH and I smiled at each other because we’re no stranger to this activity of his. He almost daily transfers his toys from toy box to couch cushion, handfuls at a time, trip after trip across the family room. On Christmas Day, with company present, he took to arranging people, pulling at hands to get us all in the same room. What looks to be some kind of spectrum-y quirk to those who don’t know him is likely, his occupational therapist told me yesterday, his way of asserting independence and control over his environment since communication isn’t really cutting it presently.

It makes sense. I mean, I still do the same thing all the time.

And then there was the well-meaning woman accompanying her grandson to the speech clinic yesterday, who watched TK running around the waiting area, whooping with excitement as he does because he’s not currently capable of exclaiming, “Why, hello, Children’s Hospital Rehab Services! How delighted I am to greet you today!” She turned to me with a knowing smile and asked, “Is he autistic?” I resisted the urge to tell her that yes, he loves to paint, just to throw her off, but I just smiled back and replied that no, he has not received that diagnosis. I wanted to go on and explain, because I’ve been her before, been the person hearing No but thinking Yes and feeling pity for the mom in denial. I wanted to explain to her, in the most snottily technical terms possible, that TK’s diagnosis is actually apraxia, likely due to a generalized motor planning problem that in turn may be associated with his Chiari Type 1 malformation, the cerebellar tonsils extending slightly below the foramen magnum, but who really knows because he also exhibits in scans a tilted C1 for which he underwent a laminectomy but only after he tilted his head for the first two years of his life, probably because of nerve impingement by C1, so it’s really a crapshoot isn’t it? I wanted to either say that or stomp my feet and throw a tantrum myself  because I’m so tired of people assuming things but then she told me her six-year-old grandson has autism and he’s not talking either and I remembered it, the fact that everyone has a story and sometimes they overlap and sometimes people are just looking for someone who understands theirs. So I settled into our currently overlapping narratives, the community they provided us that I never would have chosen but was placed into because of grace, and we had a lovely conversation.

People might not always be asking questions. At least, TK’s speech therapist tells me that because we intervened early, he will eventually crush the apraxia like he did the halo (hopefully sans muscle spasms afterward) and be talking our ears off. He won’t always steal and arrange toys, and he won’t go off to college wearing diapers and drinking from a sippy cup. And for his part, LB won’t always cry out for milk at 1 am or demand to start his day at 5:30 or refuse to nap without being swaddled like a burrito.

But he also won’t always talk angelically to himself in his crib in those few minutes before crying out, either, and he won’t always gaze at me like I hung the moon while I’m feeding him. TK won’t always hum the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” or lead me by the hand to the fridge to get his water. Someday, our house will not have each bedroom occupied by a male whose eyes tell me he’s in love with me (TH will still be here, God willing, but that look may come and go).

At his physical therapy visit the other day, I watched TK and overheard another mom’s conversation with her kid’s therapist. Both had babies a few months old, and the mom told the therapist, “All I wanted was a chance to enjoy my coffee in peace and quiet and who knew that going back to work was the answer?!” I hear you, sister, I thought but didn’t say because eavesdropping is creepy, and laughed to myself at how we would all just love to watch a movie or drink our damn coffee, and then I looked down and saw TK victoriously accomplishing a task and then running to me, eyes squinted in his quirky little funny face formation. He placed his head in my lap and let me kiss him before he ran off again. There are seasons of life, seasons of parenthood, and one day I’ll look back and see the beauty of these with the rose-colored glasses of hindsight. Or are they corrective lenses? Whichever of the two, grace lends me a pair of them now, and when I look through the frames everything changes. Filter ON.