The special joy we get from our kids

If you're a parent, then you know that one of the great joys of life is doing stuff that makes your kids happy. I mean squeal-out-loud happy. (Another great joy is when they finally go to bed at night and that's not at all contradictory, as many moms would agree.)

Max is a kid who gets extreme happiness out of seemingly small things, whether it's watching construction workers fix the roof on our house ("NEW ROOF!" he keeps telling me), coming home with a purple ballon from a birthday party or getting a Lightning McQueen shopping bag. (Hey, were you the one who left that on our doorstep this weekend?!) So when a Facebook friend told me that Pillsbury had Ready To Bake Lightning McQueen cookies, I got giddy just thinking about Max's reaction when I got them for him.

Last week I sent Dave out on a search expedition to find a store that had them and he came home with three packages.

Pillsbury Ready To Bake Spring Into Easter Lightning McQueen Shape Sugar Cookies 

Saturday afternoon I said, "Max, I have a surprise for you!" 

"Cars 2?!" he asked, hopefully. I smiled. I reached into the freezer, and pulled out a package of cookies.

Max's face lit up. He stared at the box, fascinated. He let out a little giggle of excitement. 

"Now?" he asked. 

"Yes!" I said. He giggled again and gave me a kiss on the cheek. 

[Swoon.]

These cookies are awesome for kids who have challenges with fine-motor skills, because they're pre-cut. Kids just have to grasp them, however they can, and plop them onto the baking sheet a couple inches apart.

Max demonstrating an admirable pincer grasp

We preheated the oven to 375 degrees and popped them in. 

"Light!" said Max, and I turned it on. He stood there practically the entire 10 minutes, watching them expand. 

The cookies were super-soft coming out, but they hardened up within a few minutes. They were a little too crunchy for Max's chewing abilities so I crumbled them and placed bits on his back molars. 

"Mmmmm," he said, clearly impressed with his baking skills.

Then he asked for another. Then he offered me one, which is how I knew he really and truly loves me.

Yesterday morning, Max took a plate of Lightning McQueen cookies to school. His teacher said they were the first thing he showed the kids, and he was so excited.

I am planning to get a bunch more packages, since they are seasonal, so if you live near me I'm very sorry for snapping them all up but may I please borrow a portion of your freezer?

I am still riding the high of Max's happiness. Life as a special needs mom certainly has its lows. Low low low low lows, with heaping sides of worry, stress, frustration and what-ifs. But the pure joy Max expresses blisses me out every single time. Like therapy, only better. And free. 

It's typically a quality that very young children possess, this unabashed glee over simple things they adore. Max still has it. And it is delicious. 

And I hope he never grows out of it. 

Experts for children with special needs: that would be us

Like me, I'm sure you have your own team of experts for children with special needs. Like me, I'm sure at this point you could qualify as an expert.

This is on my mind because today I read a fascinating New Yorker article, The Hot Spotters, that mentioned an inspiring doctor, Jeffrey Brenner, who works in an impoverished city in New Jersey. After he started reaching out to locals with the heaviest medical needs and giving them more personalized attention, he cut their hospital visits by 40 percent and their medical expenditures in half. I loved this quote:

"My philosophy about primary care is that the only person who has changed anyone's life is their mother. The reason is that she cares about them, and she says the same simple thing over and over and over."

It's so very true, especially when you're raising a kid with special needs—although obviously, there are plenty of caring dads out there, too. And to be sure, we have a veritable team of experts: assorted therapists, teachers, a pediatric neurologist, a developmental pediatrician, a physiatrist. But ultimately, Max's care boils down to me and Dave. Some days, the responsibility feels too great and I wish there were an actual expert overseeing Team Max. I want to make sure we're doing whatever possible to make Max's life better, easier, and more enjoyable. I want to make sure we're enabling him to get past his physical challenges and make his way in this world.

The other week, I realized we needed an adaptive handle for our phone so Max could better pick it up. Duh. The occupational therapist who sees Max at home hadn't thought to recommend it, and it had never before occurred to me, either. Max doesn't ask to make calls—but maybe he would if there were a phone he could more easily grab. The OT got the above handle and attached it the other day. So far, Max hasn't been dialing up girls, ordering things from infomercials, or prank calling, though I can just imagine that conversation:

Stranger: "Who is this?"
Max: "Ur-ul AX!" ["Purple MAX!"]
Stranger: "Huh? Who is this?"
Max: "Ur-ul AX!"
Stranger: "You have the wrong number!"
Max: "Ur-ul AX!"

I'm glad the phone handle occurred to me. I wonder what other stuff we're not thinking about that could help Max. But there's just me and Dave and Team Max, doing the best we can.