scribblechic

At twelve my son has mastered the art of disinterest; his legs stretched, body slumped, eyes intentionally slipping skyward on just audible sighs. I sometimes cringe at the angst that accompanies us on family outings. Yesterday my son’s mood sat between us as we filed into plush red velvet chairs for an afternoon play.

While my daughter marveled at the world hovering in wait for the story, my son mumbled impersonal grievances; the darkness of the storyline, the unnecessary waste of electricity in illuminating the set while patrons waited, the potential toxins in the fog. I mothered accordingly, a tiny squeeze to my daughter’s hand registering her joy and a gentle nudge to my son’s knee to silence his litany of misgivings. It was not that long ago that my son hovered on the edge of an indulgent theater chair lost to the beauty of a performance. Older now he hides his joy with the same choreographed cautiousness he camouflages fears.

Sitting beside my son, I registered the challenges that haunt the experience of the theater. Loud noises and uncomfortable lights trap my son in discomfort. Despite his mature form he still curls into himself when sounds and lights cause discomfort others cannot feel. Hands clamped over his ears and head cast downward I slipped an arm around his now broad shoulders reassuring him I understood and helping to mark the safe places to let go.

Like the story that held my daughter under its spell, my son is sometimes lost to challenges within his own story. Yesterday as we watched a timeless tale of a man reflecting over a lifetime in the space of an evening; coming into consciousness of those around him and the errors of his way; growing into a future shaped by generosity and compassion, I gave thanks for the magic of the season and the gentle lessons not lost to the tiny Scrooge beside me painstakingly hiding his fears beneath layers of bravado despite an unconscious, lopsided grin as he neared the edge of his chair.

Tagged: Holidays, Musings, Son