Dear Austin: I Want

Dear Austin, 

Where are you?

Since we left to go north for our winter vacation on the heals of your Memorial Service, and since we didn't get home until yesterday because we didn't have the constraints of your school schedule, today felt like the official first day of my "new normal" since you left us. 

I went to work, but you did not go to school. I don't like it.

I want to sing your "Good Morning" wake up song. 

I want to stroke your soft hair and arms as you squish your face and fuss and try to ignore me. 

I want to see your eyes try to open as you finally turn your head and body towards me. 

I want to see that little morning grin when you recognize me.

After daddy carries you or I pull you in your zoom-zoom chair to your day bed, I want you to tell me with your talker that you want to watch Blues Clues. 

I want to give you nose drops and suction your nose and throat. 

I want to count to 6, 6 times, while we do your breathing inhalers and you try to dodge the spacer. 

I want to brush your teeth and suction the foam from your cheeks. 

I want to ask you to roll on your back and watch while you always do your best to try to do it yourself. 

I want to clean your "button", add ointment, and tape fresh 2x2 gauze around it. 

I want to scrub your face, ears, neck and torso with a damp wash cloth. 

I want to put eye drops in your eyes. 

I want to change your diaper and put a clean shirt and shorts on you.

I want to take your temperature and o2s. 

I want to put on your socks, ankle and torso braces. 

I want to lift you into your chair and get you positioned for the drive to school. 

I want to check your backpack for meds and supplies. 

I want to load the suction machine, food pump, and talker onto your chair. 

I want to tuck your monogrammed blue rag under your chin. 

I want to buckle all the straps on your chair. 

I want to wheel you into the garage and into the wheelchair van and hear the lock click. 

I want to squeeze on either side of the chair to reach the seatbelt and fasten it. 

I want to look in the rearview mirror as we back out while asking you if you are ready to go to school.

I want to ask you if you want to go see friends, teacher, and your nurse.

I want to watch your face as I speed up and we talk about going zoom zoom.

I want to see your big grin while I play the music loud.

I want you.