Expectations versus Reality
It’s just math.
Jack slept through his Tim Tebow Night to Shine special needs prom. Not at home in his comfy bed, but actually at the prom. The entire 3 hours.
When Mike and I came to get him, he was snoring peacefully in the sensory room adjacent to the dance floor, his aide a watchful distance nearby. We learned he slept Rip Van Winkle-like as dancers in the neighboring ballroom celebrated to the high decibel band cranking out the tunes. Everyone having the time of their lives.
As I looked down at Jack’s unresponsive yet oddly peaceful form, my heart broke. He looked so cute in his tie and his boutonniere. Why couldn’t he be out with the others having fun? It really wasn’t fair.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises.
William Shakespeare
If I’m not careful, my high expectations could easily morph into playing it safe—what’s the point of having him go to the dance next year? What if he sleeps through it again? Or cries or hits himself while he’s there and has a miserable time? That would be awful.
But really, that’s not it, is it? If I’m being honest, the selfish truth is what if I’m disappointed? I could hold Jack back because of my own ridiculously over the top, life-affirming fantasies where he laughs and dances and gets crowned prom king. Reality doesn’t stand a chance.
Playing it safe would be the real tragedy—his life less fully lived because of my own struggle with expectations.
Rites of passage such as prom often come with expectations of perfection. Looking back to my own prom, I know I’ve fallen into this trap before.
After all, my first prom experience was disappointing. My date, a guy who I had a crush on for months, liked a different girl better. I discovered this while at the prom, since he disappeared most of the evening to dance with her. Though reality didn’t fit with my romantic dreams, I learned and life went on—it was no big deal in the long run. Jack should have the opportunity to have these experiences. And the highs and the lows that come with them too.
Driving home with Jack still passed out, our cute sack of flour in the backseat, Mike and I talked about him going next year. Because of course, we’ll try again.
And most of all, we laughed. Jack may not have been Prom King, but he was Sleeping Beauty. And she was royalty too.
Maybe next year will go better, maybe it will be worse, but regardless it will be an opportunity to learn something new. My son didn’t suffer. He just had a different sort of magical night. But I like to think that in his dreams, he was dancing.
