The Work of Play

I listen to you screaming and crying and I want to run over and stop therapy. I want to grab you into a bear hug and pour my strength into you. I stand by the door out of your sight but I can see everything. I see you flinging your body. I watch the talented therapist hold you protectively all the while using a gentle voice, cajoling you to interact and get some work done. I watch you correctly point to a picture and I hold back. My hands are white from holding onto the wall. I can't do this. You're screaming for 28 minutes now. Tears are flowing down my face too. Two more minutes and I'm cutting it for the day. I hear your watery voice say balloon. I hear the therapist say, "Say, I want balloon!" You scream and then I hear you say, "I...wan..ba..oon!" A sentence! You clap your hands and you're back. I hear you laugh and get down to the work of play. I can breath again.