My bacon boy.
My bright ray of sunshine on a daily basis.
My role model in all things perseverance.
My undying faith in the power of an optimistic attitude.
My teacher, my buddy, my source of occasional exasperation.
My son with autism, who I wasn't so sure was going to be able to handle elementary school when they told me they were going to mainstream him in with his peers.
They're not his peers, my mind said, fearfully.
He doesn't think like them. Doesn't talk like them. Doesn't do like them.And now, five years later, he still doesn't think like them.
He only occasionally talks like them.
But oh, my goodness, does he ever do like them. Everything. All of it. Exceeding my expectations and leaping right over my fears with an endless, energetic bound of enthusiasm.
Friday at noon he'll be a middle-schooler.
I'll be there as he hugs the teachers, the principal, his therapists and aides.
And I know I won't be the only one crying.
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