...one for the memory book...

It's almost midnight now.  The house is quiet.  I sit, alone with my thoughts, ignoring my cup of tea.  If I were to get up right now and go steal a peak at you, I'd see the final moments of your 14th year.  

I tucked you in tonight, as I do every night, with a little question in the back of my mind that I try to ignore.  "How long until this, too, is over? Will I know when it's the last time?"   We lay there, side by side, and I told you how proud I am of you...how much I love you...and how very much I have enjoyed my time with your 14 year old self.  I told you that come tomorrow, I will welcome your new self...and I will...  But he will be new.  15.  And he will be different.  And while I get to know him, a part of me will miss you at 14.  

So I sit here in the almost-dark, with the moonlight streaming in the windows, and I feel that little bit of heartbreak that comes from knowing I'll never have this moment...this day...this year...ever again.  Tomorrow you'll wake up to celebration.  Tomorrow, you'll turn 15.  And all these days...these 365 that I so enjoyed spending with you...will be nothing but memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Oh, I have been the lucky one indeed!
I have been the only ticket-holder at morning concerts, and evening serenades.
I have had a seat in the front row all year long.
You have filled my days with music, with melody, and sometimes with dissonance.
In your 14th year, you began to compose.  There's a music pad atop the keyboard...I can see it faintly from across the room.  I know that it's gradually filling up.  Scrawled notations.  Blue ink.  No erasing allowed!  You've spent hours working out the chords on keyboard or cello.  You've drawn the bow gently or viciously.  There's a soundtrack in that head of yours, and at 14 you are just beginning to figure out how to get it all on paper.
You play for me, and sometimes over me, drowning out my mood or my voice.  I ask you to practice, time and again, and you comply...for a minute or so, until distraction leads you back to your own compositions.  I mentioned this to your orchestra teacher, "throwing you under the bus" when he complimented your musical development over the past few years...I told him frankly that you don't practice nearly enough.  He looked me in the eye, with a bit of a wry smile, and said "Well, that's ok.  Clearly he gets along fine without it.".  And so you do.
Get along.
Fine.
~~~

There's nothing normal about this.

There's an abnormal boy, right?  A boy with a diagnosis.  He's different, right?

And there's a cat.  On a leash?  Being walked?

There's nothing normal about this!

I tell you all the time that normalcy is over-rated.  I tell you daily that the things that make you different are the very things that make you so beautiful.  (Yes, I know...I should say handsome!)  

At 14, you've settled in to yourself a bit more.  Become a bit more comfortable with your lanky limbs and deeper voice.  You've just begun to notice that your height is of benefit.

With two solid friendships that buoy you up, you've started to consider that I might just be right about you...that you are in fact an amazing young man....worthy of love, worthy of pride.  

You set yourself apart from that which you don't find befitting of you.  You stay out of the fray. I know how lucky I am to be raising you.  I know that other parents can't possibly have it this easy.

You know your differences.  You've accepted them.  You've utilized them.  This year, you've built upon them.  

There's nothing normal about this.  And that's the miracle!  

Mind you, the fact that we taught Katja Noel to go on walks with us is pretty darn miraculous, too!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of that height?!? 

I delight in watching you grow.  I do!  

I also break a little with each new inch.  I watch as the man wholly swallows up the boy.

We dig through last year's clothing twice annually, pulling the off-season clothing out of storage.  You moan and groan at having to try things on.  I moan and groan when the pile of castoffs grows. 

I remember when you fit in my arms.   I remember bringing you home in your newborn outfit, and gazing with wonder at those ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes.  

I remember the first time I accidentally put on your shoes instead of mine, and how I didn't even notice the mistake until you pointed it out.  I remember laughing hysterically, while swallowing a little cry that you would never again be my little boy.  

I ran out to chase off a squirrel recently, slipping my feet into your discarded sneakers.  Clearly, it was an emergency.  The birdfeeder was under attack!  Somehow I made it out without tripping but on my way back in (only slightly victorious as he chattered at me from a nearby tree) I giggled at the sight of my feet in these "clown shoes".  How is it possible?  I held your feet, both of them , in my hand the day you were born.  And suddenly here we are and your feet are twice the size of mine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's a photo I love, from years ago, where your little boy self is attacking me with a car...and I am smiling wider than ever before.  It's in a frame in the bedroom.  It's saved on my phone.  It's in my wallet.
(I told you I loved it.)
I have always loved it, from the moment the dear friend who snapped it sent it to me.  I love it because it is the best representation of my life with you.
This one will never take it's place.  I never printed it out.  I won't remember it through the years.  But as we say farewell to 14, I think it sums up this past year fairly well.
You, looking off into the distance, eyes on something I haven't even yet noticed.
Me, off balance, but blissfully so.
You, perched atop a rock, always climbing up.
Me, leaning against a tree, needing a little assist.
Close enough to reach and touch, but distant enough to see two totally different views.
Tall, but tiny...and out among the trees, just the two of us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Oh, look, there he is!  The boy who went before. Do you see him...the child of the heart?
He's giddy and goofy.  Still giving in to whims and whimsy.  He laughs loudly, no restraint.  He chases after happiness...pounding feet across the beach to set those birds to flight.
At 14, he's rarely about.  It's not often that he visits.
I've to take you out of town for the day, and find a place that's empty and free.  The beach is clear of people in the cold, early spring and with no one around to disturb us, he can come out to play for a while.  The water is cold.  He shrieks when it grasps at his toes.  We laugh into the wind, hair whipping our faces.  I see that special smile again, the one that hides so often now.
Your toes are sandy.  My hair is in knots.  Our hearts are full.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day is coming, faster now than ever before, when you will be gazing out at new horizons without me by your side.  I have worked steadfastly, all these 14 years, at making your world as limitless as possible.  In those early days of your diagnosis, my late night wonderings-wanderings often focused on an unknown future.  I worried that autism was a death-sentence of sorts.  That you would gradually disappear behind a wall of symptoms and stims.   I worried that you would never find a place of your own.  

14 years in and here you are, the living breathing contradiction of all those worries.  

Here I was, worried you would not find a place in the world so you just went and made yourself one from scratch.  You found your voice, and you found purpose, and you made for yourself a place to fit.

Thank you for letting me into it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Talk about setting the world on fire!
I look at you now and marvel to see such passion exist in one so young.
What you don't know yet, is that you've already changed the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Choices still don't come easy to you.  I see you falter, weighing the good and bad.  I pose questions to you and watch frustration play across your features as you try to analyze all the outcomes.  You get stuck in the analysis...potentials swirling exponentially.  When we go out to eat and I hand you the menu, you firmly state "Just the usual" without so much as taking a peak at the options.  When I suggest a particular entrée, you gladly agree, relieved that the decision is made.
I ask you to weigh in on trip planning, and you say "I don't know all the variables", so I try my best to plan out our adventures myself, taking into account all your likes and dislikes.
In the morning, while you shower, I lay out your clothing...pants, shirt, socks, underwear.  The very idea of having to choose it yourself creates a worry line right between your brows.  It's easier this way, when I choose it for you.
Given money, on a daytrip, to buy what you want you hem and haw over art supplies for longer than I have patience for.  You're working on those outcomes again, trying to visualize each paper color option and how it will look on the completed project.  While you ponder papercraft, I've gone round the store a dozen times, finished my coffee, scrolled through my phone.  I'm tapping my foot, and rolling my eyes, wanting to get on with the day.
In the end, I suggest colors based on what I've seen you draw.  You acquiesce.
Home once again, the next day, you excitedly show me how they are just the right colors for your current papercraft.
We've perfected this system.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I caught a J-Bug!

Or rather, he caught me!

I love that Henry still has a place in your life.  He's been a stalwart companion.  Even now when your giant hands eclipse him, he's your go-to after-school snuggle.  He sits in the car, perfectly content to take a nap, when we explore crowded locales.   He delights in joining us, when there's no one else around.  You still say goodbye to him each morning, and curl up with him each night.

He is your velveteen rabbit.  10 years of life and love have worn away his fur.  His bandage needs replacing more often these days.  We had to take him in for surgery once, to be restuffed.  Afterward, his thighs were like ham hocks and I remembered how yours once were as well.  His black and white fuzz is matted.  I've sharpied his nose countless times.   

I wonder when the day will come that he will be discarded.

He is forever our Handsome Henry.

I think to myself that he will always have a place of honour in our home.

I am forever indebted to him.  He has been a godsend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Never, ever, in all of time and among all possibilities...has a mother ever been so proud of a son as I was of you in that moment.  I wept, silently, with my face averted from the crowd so as not to spoil the import of your words or this moment.  I didn't expect it too hit me so hard.

But there you stood, all 14 years of you, all the bitter hurts and anguishes of being made fun of for your autism...all the attempts and failures to try to fit in...all the lessons you were forced to learn at your own expense...all the blows and hits and nasty words...  And there you stood, standing up for yourself and for everyone who will come after you...standing up, taking a stand, and changing the world.   Every adult in the room humbled, moved to tears.

Your words were shared across the world.  I watched with you as the post picked up speed.  You were nervous and shocked, then delighted and excited.  You said to me "I never knew it was bigger than me.  I never knew anyone but us would care."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I see other boys of your age.  I see them at school and in town.  I see them staring at their phones, or tripping one another, teasing the loner and sassing their parents.
And then I see you.  Sit down. Take the time to listen.
Give the gift of your interest as someone tries to teach you something.
You love to learn.  You love to be challenged.
You take in all this information that I make available to you, and build upon it.  You dig deeper.
I see you apply concepts and information in new ways, finding new approaches to problems.
Sometimes I can't keep up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's the darling moments like these that I want to hold onto.  When the reader I've raised, reads to his crew!  Who would have guessed that a cat would love to be read to?  Much less, that she would be so engrossed in post-apocalyptic adventures?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you were younger, I said of you to friends and family, that your attention to detail had opened up my eyes to a much more beautiful world.  I learned to take it all in, as came naturally to you.

Because of that, I now see beauty everywhere...in the dewdrop on a blade of grass, the spines of a caterpillar, the decay of a crab.  I've learned to see the art in it all.

You are the art.  It pulses in you, beneath the surface.  Your head is full of designs.  In the car, when it's quiet, I know you are cataloguing them.  Figuring out the exact specifications.

You draw these intricate models and bring them to life.  Functional transformers...papercraft.  

I can't even follow along when you try to explain it to me.

The math happens in your head.  No hesitations.  No erasures.  Just head to paper to craft.

Marvelous!

~~~~~~~~~

This year you fought to get out of the nest.  To spread your wings and fly.

In so many ways you are mature already.

You choose logic instead of emotion.  You only risk what you are willing to lose.

You stand firm in your beliefs.  You don't accept apologies that aren't genuine.

You pursue knowledge well beyond the classroom.

But you still need me.  I still know that.

So stay in the nest a little longer, and let me raise you up until you can soar!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wins come easily now.  I'm almost used to them.

Those silly fears my silly self had all those years ago are made ridiculous by your successes.

Nothing gets in your way.  Nothing can stop you.

I try to come up with new ways to challenge and you rise to each one.

Gone are the days when your worth was tied up in other's judgment.  You've proven them all wrong.  Especially that idiotic teacher who once told me your writing wasn't up to par.  

(I knew she was wrong even then.)

I recognize how unique this situation is...where I get to raise someone who I find so interesting.  I seek out your perspective on things, to broaden my own knowledge.  And I read your writing, not because I have to, but for pleasure.  I get lost in the worlds you create.

You seem to expand past my creativity and my experience.

I love seeing you take my simple gifts and grow beyond them.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steady, now!
Sometimes, we stumble together.
We sure did when we took to the ice, you for the first time and me for the first time in years!  You did your best to stay upright. I did my best to hold you up.  I think we both suffered there.  Your ankles ached.  My arm cramped.  We made our way around the ice, counting on the wall to keep us from falling.  You had one hand on the wall, and the other gripping my hand so hard so the color leached out.  In the midst of it all, I thought to myself "he still needs me!"  and loved it.  Teaching you how to ice-skate brought back memories from days gone by...those first faltering steps, learning how to ride a bike, diving under the water...  I looked up at your face, all frowny with concentration, and waited.  Soon enough, eye contact, and the stress line vanished.  As long as I was there to hold your hand, you knew you were ok.
I am wholly myself when you need me.
I am wholly myself when I am your mother...all in, hands on, of use.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 
This photo.  This one right here.  It's the beginning of the end.
It's the start.
Building blocks turned into substance.
All those "right place, right time" miracle moments come to fruition as someone believed in you so much that he sponsored your start.
A conversation about Christmas jumpstarted a passion project for your teacher~who in turn introduced you to the next person you needed to know~who sat and listened and marveled and believed~enough to want to give you your best chance.
A 3D printer, well beyond my means to provide.  Given to you, as a scholarship of sorts, to jumpstart your business.  Making of you an entrepreneur at 14.
 The just reward for all your time and patience and due diligence.  For all your hard work.
A moment that will always be remembered, as both the end and the beginning.
The printing of your first prototype.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I force you out of your comfort zone all the time, don't I?
It's part of my "mother knows best" mentality.
(I'm willing to admit that this mother doesn't always...and this son might just!)
Overwhelming.  Crowded.  Outrageously loud.
You were miserable, I know.  But did your best to make it through.  Working your way round the complex with your buddy, trying to find something that you could enjoy.
You didn't give up.  You didn't sit down and pout.  You didn't come running up to me, or going running out.  You stayed, and tried.  Even though the volume hurt your head.  Even though your sprained ankle throbbed.
You closed yourself off as best you could, to the sensory input.
And at the end of the night, you gifted me a small smile...you, crowned king of prom, gifting me this small moment because you thought I deserved it.
Thank you.
I will try better next year.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for this year, this 14 year old.

Thank you for every moment, good or bad or in between.

Thank you for testing my limits and breaking my rules.

Thank you for hugs and smiles.

Thank you for tears.

I will miss you, my 14 year old son.  I will spend the rest of my life missing you, along with all those others who came before you...1-13.  

Tomorrow, I will fall in love anew, with the 15 year old who takes your place.  He and I will start off on a fresh new adventure, and we'll see where it takes us.

But all these memories of you?  I'll treasure them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Goodbye, now.  It's time to say hello.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Leanna

...only a year and then he's gone... (Part 3, 11 through 13)

11)

Does it get any better than this photo?

Eleven years old...right on the cusp...

Balancing act between childhood and young adulthood.

And yet...still susceptible to the wonder and whimsy of youth!

What fun it is to watch him try new things. Though as he's gotten older, his reluctance has increased exponentially. We had to wait until all the other children had vacated this activity before he'd go near it. But then...oh, but then...he hit the target on his first try!

Brilliant. And curious. And bold in the face of opposition.

Determined. And resilient. And willing to try.

There is untold joy in the raising up of a unique mind. Rearing a child whose intellect surpasses the masses. As his teacher, I am taught. As his mother, I marvel.

And often, I pause in a quiet corner of my mind and think back on those early minutes, moments and days when it was all still just potential. I think back on the silence and despair of his early diagnosis...on the tiny little milestones that made up a conquering battle...on the therapists and doctors and specialists who challenged and encouraged.  Brilliant. And curious. And bold in the face of opposition.

Determined. And resilient. And willing to try.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

12)

Life with J-Bug and Henry is easily summed up in this singular photo.

I'm never quite sure which one is real, and which imaginary.

No recap would ever be complete without both.

And no coffee cup of mine is ever safe from either!

Here, at the dinner on his 12th birthday.

This. The real gift.

In a world that can send his senses reeling, he seeks comfort in my arms.

And in a world that so often dismisses me as 'less than', I find myself complete in motherhood.

This 12th year never let up, nor did he. 

Imagine, if you will, the courage required, to get up in front of a roomful of kids who have teased and taunted...

And in the silence, finding the strength to play the first note.

The whole package.

What a delightful surprise it was when we received notification of this award. So often in his life the focus has been on his fantastic academic achievements and intellect.

But I, as his mother, I knew that there was so much more to him. I knew of the creativity. I knew of the unique perspective on the world. I knew of the artist on the inside.

And finally, someone else saw it and recognized it.

What an enormous "win " this was for him...to earn recognition for art. To be praised for what he loves to do.

Every day he takes his drawing pad with him to the bus stop and begins to create, drawing from both sides of his brain to create perfectly executed Transformers designs...blending his intellect and creativity as he goes about engineering each piece.

Against what some would call 'all odds', sympathy and empathy pulse throughout him. This is a child who sees a need and aches to fulfill it. Of whom teachers marvel at his uncanny skill for knowing when they are having a hard day.

He knows his diagnosis. And he knows the hard work that has gone into getting him this far.

More astonishingly, he remembers and is able to put into words how trapped he felt by his disability when he was younger and incapable of expressing himself.

Time and again I have gotten to watch from the sidelines as he does for others what I have done for him. I have watched him intercede on the behalf of other disabled children, explaining to their parents how best to understand them and explain things to them. I have watched him be the only one able to calm down another autistic child.

So this… This came as no surprise. This miraculous son of mine  strove create a device that would help other disabled students and their teachers.

What was the surprise? That every single adult saw his project encouraged him to market it… For real!

To say I used to worry is a laughable understatement. Worry was my go-to state of being.

And chief among those worries? The debilitating fear that he would never find his niche, his people, his friends.

More the fool am I.

I only had but to listen...to watch...to see he had found just that. His version. His joy. His friends.

A cat. And a stuffed raccoon.

Never were there better friends than these!

Another barrier broken.

Here at our local library, I've witnessed so many miraculous moments. Truly, his safe place to explore options and take risks.

At 5, the very idea of empty space between objects sent him into a panic. The stairs without back risers at our pediatric office were utterly horrifying...full blown panic attack every time. Balance beams induced tears.

My arms were always full. I carried him more often than not. Until he hit my weight. Even now, a negative stimuli will send him crawling up me like a squirrel on a tree...and my arms will strain to gather him up...though he now outweighs me by 10lbs!

But I digress...

Here, look again. A parkour class at the library. A challenge to overcome.

And a boy spreading those wings of his and soaring!

In the quiet moments, I see him search.

I watch as he observes and files his observations away. I note the moments he connects one piece of information to another.

He stops in the midst of everything and the whole world sharpens and clarifies.

We. Did. It!!!

Graduation from elementary school and the knowledge that he had surpassed every grim foretelling of his early diagnosticians.

The boy they said would likely never speak...was chosen to give a speech. In a room full of kids who had teased him every day for 6 years, he strode to the podium and read his words out confidently.

I wept. I filmed the whole thing shakily as behind the lens, tears poured down my face.

I have been the luckiest.

Mind over matter

-or-

When it all finally comes together

At 12, he learned to ride a bike. And I got to be 'regular mom' for a moment...'regular mom' who lets go of the seat and let's go of her child and watches him fly!

Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. Motor skills therapy. Sensory adjustment. Proprioceptive input. Countless words for countless challenges.

And in this picture...the very moment it all fell away and was just childhood.

So often I have felt as though by being raised by me, he's missing out...

But as I look through photos (oh goodness, so many photos!) I am astonished by all the full moments.

So just now, just for today, I'm inclined to say the first 12 years were well-lived after all. Chock full of adventures and explorations.

This is family. This is complete.

This is what it looks like when everything falls apart, only to be built back up into what it should have been from the beginning.

I have never..will never...be more complete than I am on this team of two.

In this year I have begun to fall back a step or two as this young man moves forward into the lead position.

It seems illogical that I should still get just as excited about every success as I did the very first time. But you must remember, that the very heart of me still remembers all of the struggle....all of the "no"s.

And more importantly, I know all too well from my own experience that the conquering of one challenge increases the difficulty level for the next.

So we rejoice in every success. We celebrate every achievement. We indulge ourselves for a short while, before putting the armor back on and gearing up for the next battle.

In this 12th year, he leapt ahead. Forever seeking out new knowledge. Forever challenging himself to achieve something new.

And far more importantly, growing up gracefully… With an open heart and mind willing not only to listen to good advice, but to try it.

A phenomenal moment as one of my favorite authors saw in him a spark of potential that she wanted to encourage and mentor, even if just for a few minutes time.

If there is one single picture to sum up the work that goes into being this one's parent, it is this.

His is a brain that knows no limits, and a body whose boundaries are defined by his diagnosis.

My job, then, is and always has been, to be the toolbox full of solutions.

At 12 years old, he had all the answers but couldn't put them on the page. At 12 years old, he needed a stenographer.

As the door closes behind this boy at 12, I can't contain my heartache for the loss or my pride in his future.

I shall miss him always, in the deepest part of my heart, this boy at 12...just as I miss the 11 year old, and 10 and all the boys he has been. They are imprinted on me. Each one. Each version with his own challenges and successes.

I find myself looking for them in him from time to time...and more often than not, looking for some future young man he may become.

But he looks forward...so I must follow his lead and do so as well.

When he was a stumbling little boy, I cautioned him every time we went for a walk...every day he heard me say "look where you're going, not where you've been".

And in this picture, it's oh so obvious that he is doing just that...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prior to J-bug's birthday last year...these words decorated our fridge and spoke volumes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

13)

And just like that, before I've even caught my breath, the first 13 are over and done. And now I can only look back through the lens at those moments of miracle, marvel and memory....

13 brought fresh perspective, fresh outlook, and fresh challenges.  Teenager-hood came on in fits and starts...one minute my little boy, the next pushing and pulling for power.  We had to revisit communication, both of us learning (painfully) how to find new respect for one another as our roles changed.  I had to adapt to being needed less. and he to being less needy.  

A hard knock life, indeed! 

Another year older, but still true to those early glimpses of compassion and empathy.  He sought out new ways to help those in need, particularly those with special needs.  13 saw him develop as an advocate for those who needed a strong voice.  I watched in amazement as he would intervene between other children on the spectrum and their parents, translating for them as I had once done for him.  And the look of "the lightbulb moment" on those parents' faces?  Priceless!

A young man and his first tuxedo.  Quite the "coming of age" moment, as we prepped for a friend's wedding in Georgia.  We took a break from school and road-tripped our way down South over two weeks time for the celebration.  And, as I repeatedly told friends when we returned, it was "as though he packed his bags and then took out his autism and left it at home", and I marveled at how open and curious and receptive he was.  

Better still, this photo, from our hotel room right after the wedding. 

He, alone, can make me laugh like that!

Glimpses of who he'll be.  The man growing right up and out of that awkward phase.

A summer wedding, and the opportunity to dance with this handsome fellow.  Captured on film was our first attempt (minus all those years before where I did the dancing while holding him on top of my feet) to, of all things, the song his father and I had danced to at our wedding.

And after, a rush back to the table to escape the photog!

I wish I knew what I was saying at just this moment.  I look at this photo and see, again, a true depiction of our life.  Me, clearly trying to admonish...while he charms his way out of it!

 

13 years worth of change have taken their toll on our old habits and haunts.  New locales and new adventures always beckon, as I strive to enlarge his world far past the confines of his autism diagnosis.  Looking back now, I see the frantic pace I've kept us going at...never getting too comfortable or too complacent...always moving onward and upward.  It's as though each challenge he overcomes is a stepping stone for the both of us.  

Never yet has he wavered from his passion for Transformers, or his creative pursuits.  By 13, he'd realized his dream of becoming a design engineer was well within reach.  And perhaps more importantly, he learned to tune out the naysayers completely.  Art awards, honor rolls, educational commendations...they flew by one by one, all these "wins" piling up around him as he came into his own.  Hard-won friendships buoyed him through the difficult school days, and I watched somewhat helplessly as his new independence began to pull him away.  I remember wondering, keenly at times, if the pull away would always hurt so much, would always leave such a desperate ache.  And in those moments when I felt it most, he'd suddenly come to me with his artwork, asking for my opinion and gifting me with a few moments being needed once more.  

But even here at almost 14 and every bit the young man, a part of him remained oh-so-recognizable to me.  The sweet little boy who loved his Mami and his Henry.  The darling little cuddle-monster who used to nap in my lap.  Even now, all those other hims he's been are still in there, just under the surface.  I see them when he's tired, and when his day has been long.  I see them when he's caught by surprise, gone giddy with delight for a moment before he tries to toughen up act nonplussed.  Those hims he's been curl up to me for a hug when the day is new, and whimper a bit when his homework is taking too long.  I pull them to me, those moments, knowing they are fleeting.  I thank him silently for letting me reunite with all those precious memories.  And I marvel at the way time has changed that infant I once carried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Leanna

...only a year and then he's gone... (Part 2, 6 through 10)

6)

A cross country move and fresh start under our belts, we were both ready for new adventures.

And his 6th year brought plenty of them!

Kindergarten came in like a wrecking ball and threw our whole balance out of whack, as he adjusted to social and sensory stimuli and I adjusted to his absences and his emotional returns.

Already we were in the thick of it...Team Wellerding all the way!

He'd sit like this, pensive and watchful, at the playground when it was full of children. But if it was empty… Oh, the fun we'd have!

No recap of J-bug's past 10 years would be complete without a photo including Henry. Confidant of precious secrets, therapeutic assistant, educational tool, best friend, solid listener, essential cuddler and all around necessary fellow...Henry the Raccoon came into J-bug's life shortly after we left Ohio and has been a constant since. 

A few things to note:

J-bug previously had another raccoon named Joey (the name everything he named for the first five years bore!) whom he carried back and forth to preschool.

Henry was a last minute purchase at the gift shop at Space Farms Zoo after a long hot day of animal-watching.  His nose was the only one that looked 'right' to J-bug among the dozen or more raccoons displayed. He was promptly abandoned in favor of a transformer once we got home.

A week or so later we went to Build-a-Bear for the first time...what fun! Another trip followed shortly thereafter...two new stuffed friends in all their clothed, accessorized glory!?!  Little did I guess what was about to happen...

Once home, J-bug spied the abandoned raccoon forgotten in a corner and immediately retrieved him.  He came up to me in the kitchen solemnly and declared that the raccoon must have tried to run away because he felt so bad about himself.  Not quite 'getting it' yet, I inquired half-interested as to why.  Boy was I in for a surprise! In the moments that followed my son explained how the raccoon felt different and unlovable because he was the only one with  no clothes and he didn't want to be made fun of.  Aha! Now I was tuned in.  We snuggled up on the couch, raccoon between us, for a chat about how that must feel and what that raccoon must wish for.  That evening we returned to Build-a-bear with one very special stuffed animal...a newly named Henry.  And we tried on every single stitch of clothing until Henry found a set he liked.  As we left the store, J-bug checked in with Henry to see if he felt better, must have heard assent and promptly tucked him up under his arm. 

Six years old and ready to face new challenges.  Don't be fooled by the horns...the tough exterior crumbled daily the moment he got home.  J-bug continued to excel academically, though school was a challenge for his senses and emotions.  In kindergarten we soon learned the downside of having pushed so hard for a mainstream placement as other students noticed some of his autism stims and began to tease him.  Before we were a full month in it had already grown into full-fledged bullying on the playground and bus, with the scars to boot.  J-bug weathered (and continues to) the storm each day with such strength and grace but melted down when home.  And the school officials quickly learned that my 110lbs pack a steel spine, razor wit and acid tongue.  By school year's end my son had a new outlook on life based around the premise that the only people whose opinion matter are those who take the time to learn your story and walk in your shoes. And proving once again how special he truly is, he resolved not to let the frequent cruelty of others dampen his natural sympathy, empathy and generosity.

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7)

I've always said that I want him to have the fullest life possible. Wide open and chock full of people, places and experiences.

By the time he turned 7 we were well on our way. Any day that dawned sunny involved at least one adventure...even if it was just a nature hike.

It should be noted, we still hold hands when we walk...but these days my arm is the one that raises to reach his, as his 6'3" has outpaced me!

Tempted by all that water, but still quite unsure whether or not he wanted to go in without me by his side. Outfitted with as many flotation devices as he could get his hands on.

For as often as I suffer from single mom guilt and chastise my inability to provide him with objects and experiences he might have had, had things gone much, much differently… For each and every one of those times, there are at least five photos like this one that prove otherwise.  Not even twelve yet and his life is already so full of experiences.  A friend commented at one point here on Facebook about how it seems we are always on the go. And she was absolutely correct. I'm constantly trying to encourage growth in him by taking in new sights, sounds, places, tastes, etc... And so he's growing up as something of a young man of the world. He's walked alongside people from every walk of life: a multitude of economic backgrounds, a vast array of differing abilities and disabilities, talents of every form, colors and races and places diverse...

And as he gets older he has taken all that within himself and changed and grown...ever more accepting and empathetic, ever kinder and helpful...

Does it get any better than this?!? I still remember being shocked to read the notice that came home from school one day...that J-bug had one of the leads in the musical! To think we went from intensive speech therapy to this?!? Amazing!

I truly believe the best part of motherhood is when your child catches you by surprise...

...and boy, did he ever!

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8)

Quick to help, swift to hug. By 8 years old, already the kind of person I admire. And all that despite being picked on almost daily.

What a wonder! What a marvel indeed!

And what a testament to that steel spine of his and the piping hot furnace of a heart.... Nothing yet, nor ever will I hope, cool down his sympathy and empathy.

See now, that's what I'm talking about!

That smile right there…and those twinkling blue eyes...despite having just spent the better part of the morning being poked and prodded and tested.

What a sweet reminder of the strength found in love...just look, Henry is dressed for battle to defend his beloved J-bug from harm during the blood draws!

Of special note...every time J-bug goes for a round of testing or procedures, Henry is by his side and most often, partakes. To this day Henry wears a bandage on his tail...a fresh one with each experience.

There is an absolute cacophony of white noise that fills your head when a doctor's phone call diagnoses your child with autism.  It's as though you're hearing the definitive words through a tunnel filled with the sounds of other parents' experiences that you, suddenly, won't have. Or so you think.  The part of your brain still present in the moment and clutching the phone listens to the litany...the list of things you are being told your child will likely never do.  But drowning it out are the voices of all your personal worst-case scenarios. All those things that you dreamt up while you were expecting suddenly vanish into the ether with the sound of explosives going off. 

(Tangentially-you do recover)

And it takes a moment in time to sit with this stark knowledge.  Or perhaps it's a moment out of time, with no real limit or passing.  At some point you move forward and embrace the new reality. And as time passes you let go of those naïve daydreams, and start focusing on attainable accomplishments. 

Then suddenly out of the blue, long after you forgotten you ever wished it so, one of those naïve daydreams sneaks up behind you and surprises you by coming true in its own way and time.

Pictured here is one of mine.

Because pictured here is the moment that I became a Soccer Mom.

And this one thing I can absolutely guarantee you…

No mother has ever been prouder to carry that title.

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9)

By nine years old, his smile had changed permanently.

Instead of that open, trusting grin he offered the world a shy sliver...hoping for a warm welcome but nervous. In our quiet moment alone, his smiles would reach all the way to his eyes. But they never made it out when others were around.

My heart broke...daily...

And still we persevered, finding "our happy" in each and every day. Working ever harder to create a soft place to land, and holding fast to each other and our hopes and dreams.

This first decade of J-bug's life is drawing to a close, quickly! By tomorrow he'll be someone else altogether....an 11year old!

Whether it's the single parenting or the autism parenting or any other of a myriad of reasons, our little family is based first and foremost in a conscientious focus on teamwork. Making each of us stronger individually by working together.

Never is that more clear than in the crisis-moments we've come through. 

It is a lucky mother indeed, who can say her child genuinely inspires her. His strength and fortitude are simply amazing. But it is his ability to maintain his sweet and cheerful disposition, even in the hardest of times, that serves as inspiration for me.

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10)

The big 1-0 was a year for the record books for sure! The social skills therapy group afforded him a veritable crowd of likeminded buddies to take a midweek brain break with on Wednesday evenings.

And surrounded by a group of boys who genuinely thought he was "the coolest", he started to branch out a bit.

At his birthday party, we bounced ourselves silly and dove into some serious laser gun competition.

It's a boy's life after all...he totally wiped the floor with me!

Those first few heart-stopping moments of early diagnosis have been so completely eradicated by these past 10 years.  It's as though when we hear the word "no", what it translates in both of our minds as is "go forth an wage battle". In the past few years I've often spoken about the warrior side of my son in terms of school problems and health problems.    It's his ability to withstand hurt and pain that caught me by surprise.  As though hidden inside the very depths of his being is this steel spine that encourages him to jump right back into the fray, even when he knows he'll likely get hurt again.  Does he suffer from disappointment and anger and depression? Absolutely. In that, he is oh-so-typical. But it's his willingness to, with encouragement and support, keep trying and trying that have gotten him so far.  The boy who was 'not supposed to' talk, interact, learn self-help skills, etc...   That boy.  He ceased to exist. 

This boy. This one. He plays soccer. He's learning the cello and virtuosically self-teaching music. He brings home A+ exams. He had the lead in the school play and joined the musical theatre club.  He just auditioned and was accepted into the performing orchestral ensemble at school (mind you, he just picked up the cello in October).  His teachers describe him as the most empathetic child they've met....the first to offer a hug or helping hand.

This boy. This one. Loves his Mami with an active heart.  He made me a lobster!

Cares for his pet, Katja Noel, with all the concern of a loving father.

Cares for his friends, encourages their joy and shares in their griefs.

And as you can see...creates beautiful art!

One final shot as this tenth year closes...and a personal favourite.  A beautiful picture of a beautiful boy.

But more than that.

A beautiful picture of a moment in childhood...normal, typical, in no way defined by any diagnosis or deficit...just...

J-bug. At 10. At the beach.

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~Leanna