Sometimes, out of the blue, Callum suddenly bursts into tears. Real crocodile tears and a quivering lower lip. It’s not when we’re out and about or in new situations or noisy environments – where you might expect for his senses to get overloaded and him to get emotional. It’s home, during quiet moments. Where he’s relaxed and comfortable. It’s after joyful bursts of hopping around, doing ball tricks, and endless repetitions of tickle-me. When you’d never expect it. And nothing I can do that he normally loves as comfort will soothe him. No back rubs or snuggles dry his tears.
Then, just as inexplicably, he stops and returns to his normally happy mood and playful self. I’ve often tried to figure out what’s happening, what’s wrong, what he’s thinking. But I can’t seem to do it.
Right now, I’m watching him looking out the front window after just such a crying spell. And I’m realizing that it’s not really my job to get to the bottom of his every emotion. He gets to have them too – no justification required. Perhaps he expresses them differently. Saves them up – stored until he’s in a safe place to process them all at once. The tears a release of the words he doesn’t have and can’t express – but like every other human on the planet, still needs to.
So, I think – other than quickly ascertaining if he’s in pain or wanting something I can provide – I’m just going to let him cry. Sit with him while he does and stop peppering him with so many questions as to the cause. And let him be himself, without me implying something is wrong in how he does it.
We’re not given instruction manuals for any child, but in a child like Callum, you can’t help but feel the lack of one even more. I hope he senses I’m doing the best I can.