one year.

The joys will need to wait for today's entry.

One year ago today, Violet received her diagnosis with autism. It's a day I can't remember without tears spilling out.

Tears of sadness, yes, and tears remembering the place my girl was in a year ago, but more tears for that mom and dad sitting there, so stunned and frightened. With no idea of the tasks ahead of them and their fear of the unknown.

I think about how the doctors told me that Violet did indeed have autism, and then kindly tried to give me facts and phone numbers and paperwork, and I thought to myself, "Wait! Could I just step in the next room and cry really hard? I might need to vomit, too! I'm not hearing a word you've said to me since 'autism'!"

I remember sobbing when we got in the car and thinking of how the doctors told us how much work we had ahead of us, and how I needed to be Violet's advocate. I told Ben that I couldn't do the work; I might have even said I didn't want to. With two-year-old twins, I was already too busy, too overwhelmed, and not even getting "it" done pre-diagnosis.

I cried thinking about how this one appointment, this one moment suddenly put a big stamp on how we would define our family. At that moment, we became special needs parents. Oliver's future was suddenly defined totally differently. Things poured into my head...not just the huge amount we had to learn, but endless grief for the typical things that would most likely not happen for our baby.

I went home and cried all night while Googling everything I could get my fingers on.

I remember the day like it was yesterday, and yet I don't really remember life before it.

The last year has been the longest of my 38 years. I'm certain I've never gotten less sleep, worked harder, felt guiltier or cried more. I'm pretty sure I've learned more new terminology in the last twelve months than at any other time in my adult life.

And yet, every baby step feels like a gallop. Still.

When I look at a year ago, I think of my girl, who couldn't greet me when I walked into the house, now able to smile and say, "Night-night mama. I love you."
Makes a year feel like nothing.

What I would give to be able to whisper that into the ear of the crying mama in the doctor's office a year ago.