October 1st, 2022. It's 53 degrees and the sun has shifted enough in its path (we shifted, I know) that the morning rays beam through the windows in new and interesting ways, lending warm but clear light to the blue walls in my dining room. We are settling into our homeschool rhythm. Navigating life and changes with various amounts of stumbling, triumph and humbling moments.
The oldest child is 13, nearly 14. She spends a ton of her time tromping about the neighborhood, dog
on a lead, earbuds cranking out whatever neo-goth-irish folk music her phone suggests to her. It's her way of moderating her body when everything gets to be too much. She delves deep into her art, drawing and redrawing the same pose until it's perfect. She is woman-child embodied. Alternating between a very logical and thoughtful way of relating to others and a very emotional state, with the cares and troubles of this world invoking all the intense feelings. Her beautiful mind nimbly connects things she learns about herself and the world and she astounds me with her intelligence sometimes. She is learning to advocate for herself as an Autistic person and we are all re-learning the language she has been speaking to us her whole life, but with new ears and new understanding. She and some of her friends are newly enamored with the more relationally romantic aspects of life, which are hard for the parents to navigate with this first child. She often resists parental input, even good and kind encouragement, so when all else fails, I send memes and videos to let someone else's words tell her how amazing she is. If we find ourselves alone and driving, her inner world pours out to reveal the hidden depths of things she is processing.
The mIddle child is 11 and we get occasional hints of the first steps on the path to manhood in that telltale whiff of odors brewing in his armpits. Yes, puberty. It's not here, but it's coming. Of all the kids, he is still the most observant of the humans around him, the first to ask if someone is ok. The first to offer a hug. The first to say, “How can I help?” I have to remind him that it's not his job to fix the moods and problems of grownups, but he can ask for a hug if he needs one. He treads anxiously into new things: art, theatre, trombone, Boy Scouts, baseball. All of these things fit with itchy newness and trepidation, but then once he gets it, he wears his new skills like comfortable old clothes. He is still so loud, the king of punny jokes, so socially motivated, such a pest to his brother, such a good friend, a dreamer, a builder, a self-doubter, with innate musical awareness leaking out of him at every turn. I still find him outside, gloriously dirty and barefoot, shaping some creation to his will. His hair still has the cutest cowlicks forming bead-head horns on his head every morning. He still struggles to get his academic abilities to line up with his intelligence so we focus on his strengths and skill build to shore up the weaker areas. His multifaceted mind bounces from connection to connection, all with joy. All with hope. It bubbles out of him in irrepressible heaps.
The youngest child is 9 and still my little Loki. My jokester. My prankster. But now with sass. So much sass. This guy drops the best one-liners. He is always covered in dirt, always barefoot, always pondering the mysteries of the sky while lying back in the big circle swing. He builds lego creations like a master. He draws funny art to make us laugh. He has the black and white thinking that we didn’t see as early indicators of the oldest child’s Autistic traits. This knowledge allows us to provide tools to avoid the meltdowns that used to plague him. We are getting better at teaching and asking questions rather than making assumptions. He is brave, kind, unendingly silly, a live wire, sporting a 6 pack from just living life, and still Team Papa, his favorite human. He loves me too, but I see now that Matt and this boy are cut from the same cloth. Not exact copies, but the ingrained pattern is there. No wonder Matt is his favorite. He’s a natural mathematician, he is innately musical, he is a ham. He is also so hard on himself. He directs his anger inward and so we work hard on not using shame as a teaching tool or allowing him to shame himself into compliance. He wants so badly to be bigger and better at something than his siblings. He wants to shine in his own way and can’t see that he does already.
I’m 45 and 11/12ths and often still feel like I am in what Ira Glass calls “The Gap” (go watch the youtube video about it) in so many ways. I see the musician, linguist, teacher, wife, mother, writer, friend, activist, and artist I want to be, but am not there. And I struggle to carve out time (or remember to organize the time I do have) to create enough work to bridge that gap. But in the middle of all of it, I enjoy it. Don’t get me wrong. I shed plenty of tears and struggle but I give myself way more grace than ever before. I love when new knowledge and information works its way into my life, improving it in new and beautiful ways. I am grateful and looking for the good in each day, as my wise friends have taught me.
