When I dropped Jake off at school this morning, his teacher had to tell me about his afternoon class yesterday. After almost three years, he is finally in a kindergarten prep class in the afternoons. His morning class is a special needs class, which he has needed desperately up till this year. Now it is the familiarity he seeks there more than the actual need of constant supervision- huge steps.

Yesterday afternoon, his teachers played a CD for the kids (one I'm planning on nabbing a copy of) and apparently, Jake danced. Now, he will dance at home occasionally, if his mood is right and no one watches him too closely. We always have music going- I'm a music nut, and the kids have been exposed to every kind under the sun. My daughter dances wildly, according to the beat. Jake will join in at times, but is usually a watcher.

Yesterday, he danced. Really danced. He waved his arms, shook his booty and didn't want to stop. They said his face lit up and he laughed, shrieked and giggled, learning the words and singing along as he went. They had never seen anything like it- his teacher's excitement was almost heartbreaking. And I almost cried- those moments seem so huge to us, the moms and dads, teachers and others who know, who get it. And all I can think is how I wish I'd seen him, laughing without a care and dancing with his class. That would have been a sight, a small miracle- the kind that fills my heart and eyes, the kind that raises the triumphant mother in me that says "See? SEE? He CAN do this."

Those are the moments that make all the rest seem less a battle and more a journey.