...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.
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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!

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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.

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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."

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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.
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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?

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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!

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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.  

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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.

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

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~Leanna