Deuteronomy

Deuteronomy is the fifth book of the Old Testament, and includes a covenant between God and the children of Israel. I have a five year old who has been diagnosed with autism. If you have not heard of autism, I must ask you to first climb out from underneath your rock and tell you to turn on the T.V. or radio or surf the web. We've all seen the fuss about it lately and I am glad for it.

So I will now set forth a covenant I make with my five-year-old-- not fifth child, like the book-- but five, as in years.
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I will try not to be angry at you when you jump off the couch (right after I tell you not to) and break your foot.

If you hurt someone on the playground, I will try not to sound like I am making excuses for you. Instead, I will explain how your brain works differently.

When you hold completely still, move your eyes around rapidly, claim that the room is dark, and declare that your eyes are flashlights lighting up the corners, I will laugh at your joke.

When you paint a sun with many colors, because that is where rainbows come from, I will love your creativity.

When you crash into me repeatedly and then curl up into a fetal position on my lap, whimpering like a puppy, I will recognize your special need at that moment.

When you wrap the metallic sunshade from my car around your body and wear it up and down the stairs because it's your elevator, I will marvel at your ingenuity.

When you keep batteries on your nightstand because they will power your dreams, I will wish I had your imagination.

When you won't eat non-threatening bits of chicken but will eat meatballs rolled in grated Romano cheese, I will not shrug.

When you pour an entire bottle of Gatorade over the T.V. because it needed a bath, I will not raise my voice.

When you get angry because your Starburst has dissolved in your mouth, because you, "...didn't want it, so don't give it to me again!" I'll wait until you've rounded the corner to shake my head in befuddlement.

When you want to touch every baby's head and are incredibly gentle about it, I will always smile.

When you bring home your first handwritten "A", I will celebrate with you. And sigh in relief.

The first time you hug me and tell me that you love me, I cannot promise that I won't break down in tears. That is one covenant I would not be able to keep.