Typically, I use my waiting room time to race through a "child-free" errand or three. It's a luxury to shop, return or browse without having to work simultaneously on body awareness, social skills and conflict resolution. The grocery store, sans kids, can be a vacation and I cherish my 50 minute windows of Zen.
Three years ago, when my oldest son was diagnosed with Autism, I used my time in the waiting room to learn, listen and breathe. At that time, I spent most of my days driving to therapies, visiting waiting rooms, and driving to more therapies. The parents who sat with me were often waiting room veterans and helped me through this frightening time.
" How do I prioritize goals?" " How do I create a schedule that works for the whole family?" " What do I do first?" "I CAN'T DO THIS.!!!" (followed by uncontrollable weeping. )
Some of my waiting room mentors were friends of friends whom I had never met but who offered support on the phone or via email. They remembered how terrified they felt when their child was first diagnosed and they helped me in ways no one else could. They understood everything I was going through. They explained therapeutic jargon. They gave me strategic advice for managing schedules, my family and my sanity. Best of all, they let me sob until all I had left was a raw need to learn all I could about how to help my son.
Now, three years later, I'm still a waiting room frequent flyer. I am grateful that we've been able to substitute some of our therapies with swim team and soccer practice, but we still have our share of clinic visits. There are no strangers in the waiting room. We share ideas, contact lists and snacks. This community of waiting room dwellers is a powerful team and supporting new members all the time.
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