Last week the boys and I stepped onto the sidewalk from The Kid’s speech therapist’s office and TK was nearly run over by a biker. As I was catching my breath, he turned to me and grinned. “That bike almost ran me over!” he marvelled. “But…I’M STILL HERE!”

He was a way of putting things–they both do, he and Little Brother–that makes me look at the world a bit differently than I did before. Like a few days ago, when he was lamenting the fact that some kids get dropped off early for school. “They may not even have time for brekkie!” he told me, “And kids NEED brekkie so they can grow into self-sufficient adults!”

Whoa. I turned to him, this little miracle, wondering where exactly that thought came from. Or why LB thinks Alexander Hamilton’s name is actually Stanley Templeton. Or what led to TK’s recent proclamation of something being a “crackerjack idea!” Or how LB got to be so funny that, at the zoo as he’s waiting for the red pandas to show up, he calls out, “Cheeky little panda, where are you? HELLOOOOOOOOO?!”

But this “I’m still here” business–that one has stuck with me past the time I wrote in down in the quote book I keep both for my memories and eventual bribery material. The truth of it lingers through school days with and without therapists, as we fade back on the shadowing because his independence has shot through the roof lately. He has been here, still, through surgeries and therapies and evaluations and assessments. He perseveres, and brings us along with him. We are all still here.

Last week his year performed on their recorders at the school assembly, and I sat waiting for them to enter, my insides twisted into familiar knots: is he anxious? Will be resist this stage appearance? Have they put him near the end in case we need a quick escape?

Then, the entrance, and his grin, which persevered along with him and our eardrums through their song, and I looked over to where the teachers stood and saw two faces smiling back at me–his therapist’s and his teacher’s–and for a moment I thought–how lucky are we, to get TWO faces?

Yet there is the letting go that comes with every relationship, especially the parental one, and the million small steps it involves, and as we fade back on school help and therapies I realise how much I have come to depend on all these faces. I have to remain while backing off; let go little by little and fade out while not going anywhere.

So I’m still here too, navigating my own path, backing off meds then finding a balance there, and yesterday, on my birthday, I exited the cinema after watching a movie by myself and listened to a voicemail from TK’s occupational therapist, who had observed him at school that morning. She had had a hard time picking him out from the group, she said, and exclaimed over how well he’s doing, how it surpassed her expectations, and the tears sprang to my eyes with a quickness that assured me no meds have disappeared me, have robbed me of my edge or emotions. I’m still here.

And every day, when I arrive to pick them up from school, they are there: LB with his standard run-and-jump-onto-me greeting, paired with “Mommy!” As though it’s always a wonderful surprise to see me. We are all still here, with and for each other, as grace underpins and flows through everything we do, both making and keeping its own promise: I am here. And I will stay.