scribblechic

In the earliest stages of our daughter’s presence, when the idea of a second child was bundled with eager expectations for the mystery of a life newly formed, my husband and I promised to steal moments from our routines to be present with each child, individually. Careful not to disrupt the experience of parenting our son and mindfully pledging to share our time equally with someone new. Over the years we have found creative ways to borrow time alone with our children. Some days we invite them into an activity, other days we insist on their company.

This weekend my husband and daughter embarked on a camping trip with friends, leaving my son and I to rattle around the quiet. No longer easily distracted by my activities, my son is now old enough to hold expectations for more independent interests. Rather than forcibly shuffle him out the door under the pretense of preformed plans I decided to stagger through uncertainty setting my hopes for little more than time away from distractions. As a newly official teenager with an ever-present appetite, I decided to appeal to my son’s taste buds.

We began at a restaurant of his choosing. Less than a bribe and more than a concession, I wanted to meet him in a place of happy anticipation. Watching him inhale his favorite milkshake while we waited on our food I was smitten with the man-child who balanced awkwardly in his seat while draining his beverage with the sloppy, unbridled enthusiasm reminiscent of a toddler who once stuffed his order of french toast into his cheeks too eager to chew. Between bites of burger I realized I was watching my son eat pickles, onions, lettuce, and tomato without second guessing the ingredients between meat and bun. As a toddler he ate everything, but over the years stubborn expressions of self have created food boundaries that were as predictable as inexplicable. It’s funny how in motherhood something as simple as a shift in food can stir memories. I’m quite certain my son wasn’t remembering french toast as he contentedly consumed his meal, unaware I was traveling through time between bites.

Preparing to leave the restaurant I was still smiling at his loopy gait, the way he throws himself forward unaware of his surroundings, when he abruptly changed gears and pushed himself eagerly into the entryway door, holding it open for a parade of strangers. A young family entered the restaurant, the father manipulating a bulky stroller into the foyer. As an older couple made their way past my son the young father looked at me silently mouthing the word “yours” while pointing a questioning hand toward the door. As I nodded he flipped his hand into a subtle thumbs up.

This one small sign was the equivalent of silent applause for what no stranger could have realized was a special recognition. My son doesn’t always notice the people around him. His words and mannerisms can create moments of frustration among adults and peers who do not understand this child, who by all outward appearances is unexceptional, struggles to translate the world around him. The effort it takes for my son to step out of himself and juggle the multiple signals around him is exhausting at best. Only I knew that he had gone from studying the pattern of the floor, leaping from planks of wood to avoid the cracks, determined to reach a shelving structure littered with playful distractions for waiting guests his borrowed book in tow – to recognizing a need on the other side of the door. Breaking from his own momentum was more than etiquette, it was an exercise in effort that extended beyond what I could communicate in hand signals.

My husband and daughter will return today with stories of time with friends outdoors. They will settle dirty gear and smoke laced laundry as evidence of their campfire adventures to tidy for another day, but I am holding a special place in our sharing for my son’s intangible memento of our time together. A symbolic acknowledgment that he’s listening and trying, even when we are too distracted by our daily routines to see our son’s progress. Sometimes we have to spend a moment away from our expectations to allow ourselves to see something new, all the while remembering the old.

I have spent years mapping expectations, measuring growth, anticipating need, and responding to crisis. I do this quietly, without pause. Then, without warning, a moment unplanned interrupts my anticipations, disrupting expectations and creating progress.

Over the past year my son’s demonstrations of teenage moodiness and boisterous exercises in self-expression have invited disharmony into previously peaceful family moments. Defensiveness like rungs on a ladder leave us toppling into anger and injury. Accidents of ignorance without intent to harm.

Deep sighs, eyes that pull to the sky between lids half closed, and gangly limbs arranged in lazy, dismissive postures. I read the lines of his movement without hearing the hurt beneath them.

Most days I chase behavior with lessons, attempting to create consciousness. I mirror my son’s behavior, echo his words, question the path of his choice hoping to guide him towards awareness. Last night in an effort to shift my own perspective, I became the student.

Crying and yelling my son tossed his frustration recklessly while speaking intentionally. I studied the frustrated child unraveling in front of me, setting aside my need to comfort or control, and holding tightly to the words my son chose.

Anger was sadness hiding from hurt. An absence of effort was a recognition of failure under the weight of impossible standards.

I echoed my son’s words offering validation before acknowledging the boundary he had trespassed. Without judgment or consequence I listened.

All the moments I planned for, this messy moment had created hope. The ugliest pieces of our harm were merely reflections of emotions seeking compassion, inviting us to see one another’s needs. Progress unplanned.