There was a time when I believed the dandelion was a unique and beautiful flower. This was around the time when I blazed through the county and state spelling bees with a ritual tic upon the completion of each word; around the time when a misplacement of the seam of my sock too far to the side of my foot made me so uncomfortable and anxious I would remove my shoes and fix the problem; around the time when the sound of certain words made my skin crawl.

Then I grew up and stopped believing in things like dandelions and Santa Claus. And when parents told me their children had sensory issues, I didn’t believe that either, because what a convenient excuse for a kid’s bad behavior, right?

I took The Kid shopping for summer shoes last week, and let me tell you how glad I am that this is only a seasonal chore. We walked through the mall together, a hand-holding pair, and all was well. His voice carried a tune that bounced off the walls, and he held his arms out for me to carry him on the escalator–because who wants to be sucked down through those grates by the monster who lives underneath? Duh–and we headed into Stride Rite, and for an instant I thought that maybe he would be cool with it. Maybe he’d outgrown his aversion to–his screams interrupted my thoughts and I picked him up again, his legs flailing as we approached the boys’ section. The lone employee, helping another customer, turned to us. “Aww, man, what’s wrong?” she asked. I shook my head at the impossible nature of that question and just replied, “He’s not a fan.”

Two pairs of shoes and a bucket of tears later, we headed out the way we came in. He sang, I carried him up the escalator, and we walked to the car, hand in hand, the battle endured and our scars shared.

We are in this together. But it took a little while to get here. For me, about thirty-seven years.

When TK received his diagnosis, I remained calm for a couple of days before falling apart. A litany of reasons accompanied my breakdown–some rational, some panicky: the doctor observed him for all of thirty minutes; his report contained several (in my mind, huge) inaccuracies; I later heard from a professional in the field that this particular practitioner “diagnoses everyone”. It doesn’t matter, I thought, and was told. He’s still him. But then I jumped ahead to the rest of his life. Would he be treated differently? Would he ever be happy? Would he spend his time on the fringes?

Because I know something about the fringes. When I was a kid, they didn’t give it diagnostic names so much as they just called it weird. I got that a lot. I wondered all the time if something was wrong with me, why I didn’t fit in, if there was a place for me anywhere, if I was different from everyone.

I’m happy to report that I was. That I am. That it’s why I’m sitting here today, writing this, and that I suspect it has something to do with why I’m TK’s mom. I’m starting to think that this whole “being different” thing may be more common than people admit. And that it just may be the biggest and best gift we’ve ever been given. But it sure as hell didn’t come wrapped that way.

Dealing with a diagnosis that isn’t a broken bone, that isn’t strictly quantifiable, that is surrounded by my own doubt and a general uncertainty and a varying amount of ill-fitting-ness depending on the day, means living life in the gray area that I used to pretend didn’t exist. In the mystery that is more suited to children than to adults who know everything. Because I didn’t know anything before I knew everything before I started learning a few things. And I’m learning those things not in a classroom or from a book–but in shoe stores and on playgrounds, in conversations and quiet moments.

“I wish you could see how far he’s come,” TK’s preschool teacher confided yesterday when I happened to–happened to, right?–bump into her, and she told me about the girl who’s become his buddy, how she leads him by the hand (when he lets her), how they scooted across the floor on their butts and ran back in a circle to do it again. A professional may tell you that it happened because TK needs that additional sensory input to get a better idea of where his body is in space. I briefly think about that before I dwell on the part where he has a buddy who sits beside him when I can’t, and the teacher sees the tears in my eyes and we both love him, and if this is a gray area then it’s a pretty damn colorful one.

I remember when TK was younger, a year and a half maybe, and he lined up his blocks and I thought how cool that was, that he had this unique way of playing with them, that he did his own thing. Then I read that “lining up” toys was a red flag, and I let an internet list define my outlook, and every time he lined up his blocks I felt a mixture of sadness and fear for what it all meant. Then one day recently I watched him, purposeful and attentive, as he lined them up and I forgot how I was supposed to be scared and sad and for an instant I returned to my original reaction: That’s so cool. Then the thought hit me that I needed to recalibrate my response to “Sad” and that was just it, you know? The rebel that was born in me after the rule-following approval-seeker was vanquished, she rose back up and said, “Oh NO. Just FUCK THAT.” And I let it seep in, how this gift he has is just that–a gift, not a red flag–and this is not us making the best of a bad situation, this is us recognizing a beautiful life. A life unfolding at its own pace and in its own way. This is us deciding to believe again–in the more, in the beautiful, in the not-as-it-appears.

Which is why, when he sings loud enough to shake the walls of the mall, I don’t glance apologetically at the fellow shoppers. I sing along with him, his echo and choir. And when he finds a quiet spot off to the side, I sit there too. And when he lines up his toys, I think about engineering and architecture, not diagnoses and checklists, and I tell him how great it looks. How much I love what he’s made. I’m not in denial–I’m in acceptance. Acceptance of him, and of redemption and beauty and fullness looking like more than a diagnosis. And playing out beyond today. Because where we are now, in the gray area, is a spot where he needs a duet partner and a seat buddy and a playmate. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. I’ve been headed here my whole life, as grace undoes my agenda, loosens my grip, changes my plans, and puts a gift in my lap. It took awhile, but I’m back to seeing flowers.