The Present

I was walking across the yard today with Seth, as I have done so many times before, after getting him off of the bus. We were strolling more than walking, and he had wrapped his arm around my waist, and was looking at me as if to say, “This is nice.” I have the habit of asking Seth, as we walk from the bus to the house, “Did you have a good day?” I know he can’t answer me with words, but the look on his face seems to say, “Yeah, I guess I did.” So much of what Seth and I say to each other does not happen verbally. He has a way of looking into my very heart and speaking to me without saying a word. We have a connection that transcends speech. A connection that is so effortless, that I sometimes take it for granted.

Seth has had a pretty rough summer. His Grandma died in May, and I spent much of my summer gone, helping take care of my Dad, who became very ill for a time. When I was around, I was trying to work full time, grieve for my Mom, do what I could for my Dad, and pick up my role as Mom in my household. I always made sure that Seth was taken care of, with his Dad and big sister in charge, there was no question that his needs were being met. I checked in with him when I could. Seth became so used to seeing me on Skype, he would go sit in front of the computer, waiting for me to show up. But even over the hazy connection of the internet, Seth could tell Mom was not OK. Seth, being the empathetic person that he is, tried very hard to make me feel better. I think he even became depressed for a time, either not understanding what was happening, or maybe understanding too well.

As the summer turned into fall, our life began to take on a more “normal” routine. Dad was much better, and I felt ok about devoting less time to helping him, at least not daily. Seth started school, and I turned more of my attention to my job. What I didn’t realize was that I had forgotten how much my own well-being depended on spending time with Seth. My life has evolved into a juggling exercise where taking care of myself ends up being the ball that gets dropped. Physically, I could be better, but nothing dangerous is going on. Emotionally, is an other issue. I tell myself that I don’t have time to be sad or tired or any of those self indulging emotions. I just wind myself up and keep going.

As we were strolling across the yard, no more than a minute from the bus to the porch, it occurred to me that in all of the upheaval of the last few months, I had lost my appreciation for walking slowly. Seth always walks slowly, probably because of his physical limitations, but I suspect mainly because….. he can. Seth lives in the moment. He has the ability to be completely present, with whomever and in whatever situation, with no thought to “what next?” The time that Seth spends with you is not wasted on thinking about what comes next. Seth has the ability to give your heart his undivided attention. He hears more than your chatter, and sees beyond the mask that is presented for the rest of the world. His heart converses with your heart. Walking slowly, arm in arm, swaying to Seth’s wobbly gait, I realized how much I have missed time with Seth. In that one minute walk, I was reminded how much I need Seth to help me slow down….to connect.

I owe so much to this child. I am often told how lucky Seth is to have us. I always reply with something like, “We are the lucky ones.” I will admit it has occurred to me that we saved Seth’s life by bringing him into our family. But Seth has more than “saved” me. He has renewed in me the value of the human connection. Seth has no interest in impressing anyone. His skill is in being “present” with you and in giving your spirit nourishment. His reward is to see your smile. Life is much more beautiful when I slow down and look at it with Seth. He has it all figured out. I’m so thankful that Seth has taught me the value of walking slowly.

Related: Be More “Present” in Your Parenting

About Author: My name is Teresa Miller. My husband, Tom, and I are foster parents. Our experience with children with special needs began when Seth, a child with Down Syndrome came into our home as a foster child. We were called to pick him up in the Emergency Room at 11:00 at night. When we left the hospital with Seth, he was wearing a shirt, a pull-up, hospital pants, shoes and socks, and we had one oxygen tank. Because he does not talk, we had to learn his body language and guess at what he needed. Since Seth came to live with us, he has learned to feed himself with utensils, he is potty trained, and he has learned some sign language. While we are not experts, we fully understand the challenges of having a child with special needs in our life.

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This post originally appeared on our November/December 2010 Magazine