My (nearly) six year old son is developmentally delayed. He doesn’t have autism, aspergers or down syndrome. He isn’t living with cerebral palsy, has never had a brain injury, and extensive genetic testing all came back negative. He is simply behind.

Part of his delay is due to numerous health problems, hospital stays and surgeries. Every event, illness, and needle poke caused him to regress. This boy has had more medical procedures than most people have their entire lives.

The most noticeable delay is his speech, which came to pass because he couldn’t hear well for five out of six years of his life. We kept telling doctors, but my son kept passing hearing tests. When he finally failed a screening last year, we were actually relieved.

Before this school year started, I met with his Pre-Kindergarten teachers in private. I explained my son’s health history and his delays. They had been great when my nine year old daughter was in Pre-K a few years ago, and I had high hopes they would be wonderful partners in the game of catch-up my son has been playing. I failed to take into account that my daughter sprouted a halo when she was born.

These teachers, who had been perfect for my angelic daughter…well, I’m pretty sure that combined they have been teaching for 90 years. And in that time, I don’t know if they’ve had much experience with a special needs child. It’s nearly the end of the school year and so far they haven’t had much luck at keeping my boy in check.

I’m not going to sit here and say my son is perfect, because he’s not. He’s as ornery as the day is long. He has a wicked sense of humor, which is a particular benefit to this Mom blogger, but to his teachers…not so much. Yesterday, he told me he was pretending to be at a party, which is why he put mulch in someone’s hair. Confetti…Mulch. Potato…Po-taht-uh.

And, when they told me he disrupted snack-time the other day because he wouldn’t stop singing his ABC’s, it almost brought me to tears. Not because he was being bad, but because I can remember when we never thought he’d know his alphabet.

I took away toys, the computer, and TV to discipline him for not listening to his teachers. But, do you know how hard it is to punish a kid for singing, when you never thought you would hear him sing?

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This morning brought yet another instance where I was astonished to hear the words coming out of my mouth, when I looked at my five year old son and said, “Don’t play your drums with your banana peel.”

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I haven’t slept in about 10 years. Okay, I’m exaggerating…a little. My insomnia started when I was pregnant with my daughter, and it hasn’t let up since.

I now hold the belief that only single people, with no kids, no pets and quiet neighbors, actually sleep. They also must not live near an airport, and can’t keep their windows open to allow the sound of chirping birds to come through. Anyone wanna lend me a BB gun?

My lack of sleep was compounded by having two preemies who both wore heart monitors. You have never really heard an alarm, until you’ve heard one that tells you your baby isn’t breathing, or their heart rate has dropped dangerously low…at 3:00 AM. For my next blog post, I will be discussing adrenaline rush.

Now my dog is getting old, and likes to nudge me with her cold, wet nose to let me know she needs to poop, or puke, or because she feels the need to be petted in the wee hours.

And, there are kids having bad dreams and moving about in the night. I’m always on high alert when I hear one of them. You never know when vomit will strike.

Add to that, my husband’s snoring…okay, not fair…everyone has a husband who snores. But, I’m also lucky enough to have one who suffers from night terrors. My wonderful guy once woke me by pulling me out of bed by my ankles while screaming, “Get out of here! Get out of here!” And another time, he jumped from the bed with all the covers, hit a picture off the wall, and ran into the closet, knocking all the clothes down in the process. He claimed a marching band was coming toward us, and we were about to get trampled.

I don’t know if I didn’t sleep that night because he startled me…or if I was disturbed that he left me there to get stomped by people with wind instruments.

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It seems as though my nine year old daughter has been playing too much Guitar Hero, because when I picked her up from school on Friday she said, “Mom, Barracuda has been stuck in my head all day.”

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