You know how it is sometimes. It's like how you don't notice that your child is growing in tiny increments week by week until the day you look at him and realize that all of his pants are two inches too short. Sometimes you just focus on the day-to-day, taking each presenting issue as it comes, reacting and responding to each incident as a stand-alone, not thinking about what it all means when taken together, until the incidents build up enough to turn into a two-by-four that bonks you over the head and you finally get it.
Or maybe that's not how it is for you. That's how it is for me.
I've noticed a whole bunch of things from Bud over the past weeks - or maybe months - that I only viewed in isolation.
Like, I mean, I noticed how often I'd find him in front of the computer in his underwear, drawn to PBS Kids even though he was in the middle of getting dressed for the day.
There have been lots of times when he's wandered downstairs, leaving his grandfather waiting for him in the playroom. Then, when I've asked,"Hey, what'd you do with Papa?," he'd say "Whoops!" and run back upstairs with a grin.
I've found myself commenting to my mom that he's suddenly started running laps around the house in mid-meal, mid-television show, mid-conversation, mid-everything, the way he did when he was a toddler.
I can't count the number of times he's run upstairs to get something... then never returned with the thing in hand.
I have grown accustomed to the monologue I deliver every time I give him his medication, which must be delivered in three spoons full of jello: "Here you go. Wait, wait, wait. - don't go away - here's another. Good job. Wait, stay here, stay here, stay here. Bud, come back here! Okay, here you go."
It began to strike me this weekend when he sat down to make a list for school of all the things he'd done since Friday. He started writing "Sang song to Papa," got as far as the "S-a-n," then was off to retrieve the CD that had the song that he sang, while he sang me the song that he sang and showed me the dance that accompanied the song that he sang and told me how much Papa loved hearing the song that he sang, all while I tried to redirect him back to the page with a feeble "and what letter comes next?"
But I didn't really get it - the puzzle pieces didn't all fall together - the trees didn't become a thick, green forest - until this morning, when he sang and spun and talked and talked and talked his way through the morning, then dashed past Mrs. Nee as she met him at the school door and immediately started running laps around the cafeteria as I gave her a quick recap of our morning. He didn't stop running to say goodbye, and instead just blew me a kiss from across the room as he ran and ran and ran.
That is when the two-by-four bonked me:
I think his ADHD meds might be two inches too short.