We have a ritual, Logan and I.
Every evening (and some mornings too) when I give him his medication, I also give him his chocolate chip bribe. The meds are to keep his seizures at bay while the bribe is to convince to take them.
One night several years ago, I started singing a silly, made-up song. I still sing it every time I give him his meds.
Chocolate, chocolate, I love you.
I love you.
Yes, I do.
Chocolate, chocolate, I love you,
I love you.
Yes, I do.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing fancy. It’s a pretty silly little song, really. Except I got a kick out of the way he relaxed as I sang it. The child who never relaxes or stays still for a minute would lean against his pillow as his tense muscles relaxed for the first time that day. He’d clutch his blanket; quiet and watchful as our ritual progressed.
Over time, his eyes would drift to mine as I got close to the end. Until I started this little ritual, Logan rarely looked me in the eyes. I‘m not invited into his world often. Somehow during the comfort of a silly song, our special routine, he began letting his guard down.
And somehow, over even more time, he’d decide, sometimes, to lean forward until his forehead pressed against mine and relax.