cues

“Make sure you check your blood sugar before going on stage,” I told Micah as I pulled next to the curb closest to the performing arts wing of his high school. The sun was just peaking above the horizon at 7:00 a.m., the hour the theater director had called his cast and crew. This morning would be the first performance of “Annie, The Musical,” for a group of middle school students. “There might not be anyone to check on you, kiddo,” I warned. “Just remember, when in doubt, drink juice. And make sure you’re where you need to be backstage to hear your cues.”

“Mom—I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He groaned goodheartedly, his grin easing my apprehension ever so slightly.

“Okay then. Break a leg, kid. And have fun!”

I sat in my car and watched my slender six-foot six-inch son walk away from me in his characteristic sway and slow gait as he headed toward the gray doors of his school.

“Please keep him safe, Lord,” I prayed as I pulled away from the curb. I was so very grateful that Micah was chosen to be a part of this wonderful musical, and that the director had given him a couple roles that seemed to be a perfect fit. As an apple seller and a cop, Micah had more than several lines and joined an ensemble of actors in multiple scenes. Over the last couple months, he’d perfected his lines, learned songs and choreography, and knew his cues. I was so proud of him, and my heart was filled with happiness, because I knew he felt included, that he was an important part of the show.

But despite these positive vibes, a hint of worry still lurked in the shadows of my mind.

Was I doing the right thing–leaving him to completely fend for himself during a two-and-a-half-hour theater production? Would anyone keep an eye on him? What if he became distracted and forgot to check his CGM? What if he missed his cues? What if the low blood sugar alert sounded while he was on stage?

A few days prior, I’d talked with Micah’s resource teacher. Would there be a para who could hang backstage with him—to help monitor his blood sugar numbers—and make sure he heard his cues?  

“I’m not sure a para will be available,” his teacher said, “but I could probably find someone to walk down there and check on him a couple times.”

His answer came as no surprise. I knew there was a shortage of paraprofessionals in schools throughout our area. “That would be fine,” I acquiesced. “Really, I think he’ll be okay managing by himself.”

Now, after dropping Micah off and driving the twenty minutes back home, my fear reared its ugly head.

“Maybe I should skip my Wednesday writing class and go support him,” I told Todd as I sat down with my cup of coffee just as he was finishing his yogurt parfait.

“Absolutely not. Don’t be a helicopter. He’ll be fine.” My husband’s admonishment cut me to the core.

Is that what I’d become–a helicopter parent? I felt like my watchfulness was a sign of responsible special needs parenting. But maybe this overprotectiveness was not the best way of moving forward. Perhaps I was over functioning, hurting both Micah and me.

Months ago, we’d sat in the children’s clinic exam room during Micah’s annual physical with the pediatrician we’d seen for over fifteen years, the one who’d declared our son’s diagnosis of type 1 diabetes. Always wearing his white medical coat, he was serious in demeanor, yet kind. My trust in him was solidified after years of thorough examinations, making sure that Micah was okay physically, and that he was receiving everything he needed from school as well as the community. He was loved and well-respected by so many other parents I knew.

“Have you started to leave Micah at home alone for periods of time?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?” I thought to myself. How could we possibly leave our son alone? What would happen if we couldn’t reach him for some reason?

“Are you saying that’s a good idea?” I asked.

“I think some level of independence would be beneficial for Micah as he gets older,” he advised.

I’d made some comment about possibly leaving him for an hour or two while Todd and I grabbed dinner at a restaurant five minutes from our home. We’d still be able to get to him quickly if there was an emergency.

These memories came back to me as I sat in the theater the next evening watching our son prove that he could manage—that he was continuing to grow into his adulthood at a steady pace. It was time to give him more opportunities to live his life away from constant watch. I needed to let him move forward toward a level of independence, while I took a step back, not to neglect but to give him more space—

so that ultimately, he can learn to fly.