Off my chest, onto yours

I have this thing that I feel a need to share. I can’t go telling the people I know, beyond family and close friends, because it would be an inappropriate sympathy grab and it isn’t even really my story to tell. It is my son’s. My heart hurts so bad right now though.

So he’s autistic and a sensory seeker, so he needs sports, but he’s hypermobile. I have him on a mile-long waiting list at an EDS clinic. He was officially diagnosed with BJHS a long time ago, but that’s a BS diagnosis; the disease doesn’t officially exist anymore, and it hasn’t since before he was diagnosed. It’s like Asperger’s. Don’t @ me.

Anyway. The doctor said sports were fine. I said no football. Dad said let him, and I lost.

We had a series of bad sprains, but he played through them. His pain tolerance is crazy high. Last year, first scrimmage of the season, he broke a bone. Hypermobility actually made the break not as bad as it could’ve been, but he healed slow, and he was out the whole season, and soccer was rough too. His PT didn’t even really start till soccer was underway, and one leg was atrophied. He got winded easily, and he just generally didn’t have a good season. That was junior year.

This year, he was recruited for a military academy. He should not have been, since he’s autistic, and I think at some point they would have cut him loose, but he was hopeful and pushing through the process. He was excited. And he was playing football, and strongly believed he’d be the captain of his soccer team. He has been playing on this team since he was in 8th grade, and he’s the leader, both in skill and knowledge, and in heart.

Then, last week, in the first game of the regular football season, he dislocated his elbow. They reduced it at the game in the locker room with no anesthesia. He’s a trooper. No tears, just some groans. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever witnessed as a parent, and I’ve witnessed a lot. I have two kids with chronic illness. I can’t even be mad about football, because he could’ve dislocated it riding a bike. He fell on his hand – it wasn’t a tackle or anything.

He thought it was just a sprain – high pain tolerance, remember? We got xrays, they said no biggie, you’ll be back in a week. But the trainer wanted an MRI done because it started swelling badly.

Every ligament except one is fully torn. One fully torn and 2 partially torn tendons. 2 fully torn muscles. 2 damaged nerves. And a small fracture.

He’s done. Military academy is out for sure, now. Football is done. Coaches had emotional conversations with him about how coachable he was and how much heart he had. The soccer roster came out, and he isn’t on it. My heart hurts for him. We’ve cried together three nights in a row. He doesn’t cry often. He just stands there and holds me and I hold him and we cry. This is his senior year… and it will be nothing that he dreamed or hoped for. And I feel like his teammates have moved on. I mean, why wouldn’t they? They have games to win. I get it, but it hurts me so bad to see him hurting.

Parenting is hard, man.

Secrets

There is little light; I can scarcely see the curve of their cheeks. The room is quiet, deep breaths breaking the night air. I sit and watch for a moment, rocking as the chair squeaks gently.

They want to sleep together when Daddy is gone. They huddle in a pile under down blankets like small puppies, veering toward full contact and warmth. Her hair tangles in his fingers; I sense disaster coming if he moves his arm.

I slide my hand under her pillow and find an envelope. It holds a secret that childhood keeps for only a few years. I slip it into my pocket. My hand goes under the pillow again. I hold my breath as he stirs. His arm falls across her chest, and she turns to him in response. I back up and exit the room.

In the morning, she will run into my room with money in her hand, full of excitement. She will lisp as she tells me about her adventures last night, when she saw the tooth fairy for the third time.

Waking Moments

I move through the morning with lead flowing through my veins instead of blood. The first hour of the day, before the coffee purifies me, is always sluggish.

The first moments after waking find me seeking the children out, looking for them to be in my bed. I frequently don’t remember on waking whether they had a bad night and joined me, not unless it was something like illness or a nightmare requiring comfort before they sleep again.

I consider joining them most days, bypassing the coffee pot and climbing the stairs to a reassurance that all is right in my world.

I can remember when they were younger, I would hope that they would sleep late, giving me more time to do what I needed to do around the house or getting ready. That was when their waking meant the whole house had to stop and serve them. Now, though, they can wake and start their own breakfast or wait for a shower to be free.

If I had all the time in the world, and they did not have obligations like school, I would climb in their bed and idly lift their hand into mine, marveling at how limp they lay as they sleep. They would stir a bit and lean into me, still instinctively seeking the warmest and softest parts of my body. I would breathe in the scent of sleeping child… more lovely than woken child by a long mile. I would stay long enough to drift back into sleep myself, and I would sleep deeply — complete and content.

Growing Up, One Midnight at a Time

Warning… The writing contained here may evoke images no one except a mother can handle. There. Don’t say I didn’t give you fair notice.

There is something predictable about middle-of-the-night sickness. It always happens when I am congested and take Benadryl. (Or when I have a migraine). I am woken at the witching hour, or close to it, with a brain drugged with sleep or pain.

I react immediately, and mostly rationally, to the sound of retching or convulsive coughing. If you were to ask any other task of me at that moment, I would fail. I would not be gracious or gentle if they woke me to discuss the fact that they woke up in their own bed when they fell asleep on the sofa. (Yes, it happens.). If the dog were to start whining, I would not be sweet. But when I hear potential vomit hitting my carpet, I act fast, even through my drugged state. And to my credit, I manage to be mostly nurturing at the same time.

Last night, there was a new (major to my mind) milestone reached in Sana’s child development checklist. She woke me at 12 pm, Tupperware bowl in hand, with a “Mommy, I feel like I need to throw up”. She waited till we moved into the bathroom, and sat calmly on the side of the tub, vomited neatly, and asked if she could rinse her mouth. Then we lay down together, and she told me that she would appreciate it if I would go upstairs and get her toothbrush, as her mouth tasted yucky.

That’s right! (Comfort for young mothers). Somewhere around six years old they start articulating their needs instead of just vomiting in the bed, on the stairs, in the dog bowl, and on your shirt.

I remember when Antonio reached that point. He has progressed now to telling me when he feels nauseous and exactly what the odds are that he will vomit in the next two minutes. “Pull over, Mom. 80% chance the Trix are coming up.” Or, “I’m willing to risk going to school… it’s less than 50%.”

I remember that pattern from my own childhood. The day my mother left the plastic trash can next to the bed and told me to wake her if I needed her… The day I actually was sick and didn’t tell her about it until the next morning. Then as I began living on my own, the only person besides me that knew if I had a bug was my immediate supervisor at work.

I appreciate some parts of their maturity. I like holding their head and washing their faces and getting toothbrushes instead of digging out the OxiClean at midnight. And I really do hate vomit. I hate the sound, the smell, the sight, my instinctive sympathetic response that I must battle.

However, I also know that it will be a really sad morning for me when my one of my beloved babies says for the first time, “Mom, I threw up last night. I don’t think I should go to school.”

I know that the first time they are too old for my comfort, I will feel useless.

I hope that even when they are married with children of their own, they will know that I still want that phone call, “Mom, can you come take care of me? I don’t feel well.”

And Benadryl or no, migraines notwithstanding, I will be in the car and on my way before you can say, “Mom, I think I need to throw up”.

Snuggles

I lay on the sofa with my son’s head in the crook of my neck. Every bone in his body feels sharp, making me aware of how many places he feels the need to push against me. His elbow is against my ribs, and he has twined his legs around one of mine. He pushes with his toes against my calf and rubs his hair over and over against my cheek till it feels like sandpaper.

I remember feeling like this when he was in the womb. He had to stretch, pushing his feet against my ribs on the right side of my body (I still remember feeling that they might crack if he didn’t relax). His head would push downward and his little butt made a misshapen lump on the left side of my massive belly. I was convinced that he would be almost three feet tall at birth. Even though he was born plump, he was somehow angular at the same time.

He needs to be bone to bone with me, every minute. He craves sharp, painful contact with me that I cannot ignore. Even his hugs are painful. I feel guilty for feeling pain. But it is real; holding him is like hugging a sculpture of some sort — heavy and intense and vivid but somehow all sharp edges that leave imprints on me, inside and out, soul and body.

My daughter, on the other hand, is as soft as can be. It always amazes me that the same sets of DNA can produce two beings so very different. She was petite and delicate even at birth; a tiny lissome elf, graceful even in the womb.

She was born all curves, soft and sweet and feminine. Even as a newborn, you could judge her shape from the back and know that she was a girl. She offers hugs with a limp abandon, draping long legs and arms over your shoulders and around your waist — close and snug, but never tight.

When she lays next to me, her curls are everywhere, in my mouth and tickling my ears, moving slightly with every breath. She breathes in unison with me, just deeper and warmer. She fits into my arms like a pillow, filling every inch of space completely and gently.

She is light and muscular and lean, but you do not feel anything except soft when she snuggles with you. She is velvet where he is carved bone.

I hope that both want my touch — my hugs and snuggles — for a long time. I hope that they continue to want to swap places every fifteen minutes or so, bringing me two extremes of love… both precious and irreplaceable.

Time Travel

I walked up the stairs this morning to wake them, and heard my knees creak in concert with each step.

I looked in her room first, and she was peaceful.  Last night was difficult.  Full of tears and showers, rainclouds inside and balmy weather out.  I decided to let her sleep for three more minutes.

He was already awake, laying in his bed with warm pajamas and a thin sheet.  The pj’s are my decision; I always worry that they will kick the covers off.  He cleared his throat like the old man that he has always been, since the day he was born.

From the doorway I could see him smile at me.  It was a little quirky half smile that I love to see.  His genuine smile reserved only for the sweetest of times.  Then he turned away and looked at his window.  His alarm clock started beeping insistently, and I laid down next to him, reached across him and turned it off.

The nape of his neck was exposed.   He’s needed a haircut for several weeks, but I’ve delayed torturing him until it was truly dire.  The little fine blond hairs that I will trim and shave from his neck caught the light from the doorway, and his face stayed in shadow.  I breathed, and the hairs shifted.

“Mom, can you tell me a story?”  A waking story, instead of a bedtime story.  Bedtime routines last night got lost in finishing dinner and showering after a late muddy football practice.

“What story, love?”

“Maybe one about how you would show a boy you liked him, when you were my age.”

“Are you thinking about her?”

He thinks of her all the time.  He loves Harry Potter, but maybe more just because she does.  She waits at the fence for him every day, and passes little notes about obscure facts on the Gryffindor common room during study hall.

“Yes.  I still think I made a big mistake last year when I told her I didn’t like her.  Except as a friend, ya know?”

“I know, baby.  But it’s okay.  She told Sana she only liked you as a friend, right? But you know deep inside that wasn’t true, right?”

“Yeah.  I think she likes me.”

“You don’t have to tell her anything until you’re ready.”

He turns back around, and now I don’t see the little hairs on his neck.  I find little fine hairs on his lip and chin, showing me that someday he will be a man in body as well as in mind.

“I’m ready to do something about it, just not say something.  I wish I could go back in time and just tell her the truth.”

I wish desperately that I could wave a magic wand and give him everything he wants.  His first little love is a sweet girl, and they are both innocent enough that I don’t feel any concern about their friendship.

“There’s no time travel in life, baby.  Sometimes I wish there was.”

“What would you do if you could go back in time, Mommy?”

He only calls me that in the early mornings or deep into the late of night.  I love to hear it and wish that I could bottle the words so that I could smell them when I am desperately alone.

I think for a moment about all of the things I could change.  And what would happen if I did.  There are little things that maybe I would do differently.  But then the effects could be huge… I am content, if not always happy, and would not take that risk.

“I would listen to that mix tape Aunt Rachel gave me one more time before I lost it.”

“I would go back to yesterday, and climb into bed with you at six in the morning before you woke and kiss you one extra time.”

And then I sigh, and hug him, and tell him “Every single step I took led me to this moment, love.  And this moment is perfect.  Now, what do you want for breakfast?”

He bolts up and says, “Chocolate chip waffles!  I’m starving!”

And I send him down to start the waffles, and go climb into the bed with Sana.