June 30th, 2023

Not everything I write is shared with my kids. 

I’ve encountered angry messages from people stumbling upon my work who assume that I’m penning my observations and sharing them freely with my kids as my editors. Although the idea of this amuses me to imagine, it is an ugly assumption and slight towards my writing let alone my parenting. I embrace my weirdness but I’m not going out of my way to scar my children’s psyches with it on a daily basis. Sometimes you have to rein in the crazy for the sake of the greater good of the household.

There are corners of my thoughts that don’t need to be aired to all in my life. This doesn’t sit well with me at times because it’s contrary to my personality but I know that it’s for the best. I grew up with the confusion of secrets as a second language and avoid being ambiguous when I can. I opt for being direct with those in my life I care about and, at times, to a fault. I think it’s why I’ve been a magnet for those that are neurodiverse and why I gravitate towards those that are. The otherness of those being painfully honest is refreshing yet scalding to the soul. Much like wasabi being mistaken as guacamole. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

There’s also the debate over their privacy and whether or not we should acknowledge their neurodiversity. On this point, I do share that discussion with my kids and they appreciate that I enjoy discussing autism with others and it reassures them that I love that aspect of their selves. I’m proud of them and autism is part of who they are physiologically and spiritually so why wouldn’t I want to share our discoveries and moments of humor? If it helps a parent new to autism, or a child just learning this about themselves, then more the merrier to the discourse.

It came as a shock when I asked my daughter about my last published piece by offering to share it with her, without a second of trepidation, she responded, “Of course I’ll read it! I love that you write about me!”

Cue the jaw drop and throat tightening to fight back the tears.

“What?….Really?”

Insert the preteen eyeroll and nervous giggling. She went on to explain that it made her feel loved and she liked that she would have my stories to read when she’s older. I could barely breathe. Then she added, cue the other shoe, “Just don’t embarrass me!”

I swallowed the lump in my throat to prepare for eating crow. She read over my article and came storming back out of her room, “Will you change it?”

I smiled, “Of course,” I fought back laughter at the look of relief on her face, “I’ll save this for my journal…”

She glared at me on her way back to her room and I tried to contain my mischievous giggle.

There are moments in motherhood that I find so poignant that I feel compelled to write them down. They leave me in a state of awe. Like a suspended, present membrance. A deja vu of a moment that never has occurred and my mind wants to capture it in case I’m unable to recall it in the future. It’s the same reason I love photography. There’s a panicked urgency to imprint the memory before it eludes me.

It was one of those moments that occurred just the other day. A day like any other of cleaning and puttering when I happened to pass the open door of my daughter’s room and spotted her sitting on the bed next to her brother. They both were enraptured, listening to a podcast together, and staring at their tablet as families used to gather around a radio to hear the “talkies” in the evening. A reverence to their faces as they focused so keenly on the voice they were taking in and leaning in towards each other in a perfect mimcry of body language that only synchronized swimming could pay tribute to.

It stole my breath as if I had stumbled upon a deer in the woods. A magical reverence fell over me at the luck of having eyes and seeing what was before me. It belonged where it stood yet I was mystified by the magic of it being. It’s mere existence conjured a swelling of emotion in me that it couldn’t sense or acknowledge yet it didn’t change the gratitude I felt for it causing it all the same. I feared to move or breath lest it ended.

So there I was, standing in the hallway, holding a basket of laundry. Watching them listen to a story. Noting how tall they’ve become. How small they still are. How appreciative I am of them being so kind to each other and others. How close they are as siblings. Then he held her hand.

For all the bickering, nit-picking, rivalry over fairness and attention, squabbling over tv shows, hiding of toys, borrowing without asking, stealing socks, eating the last cookie, and embarrassing each other in front of friends with picking of a nose (gasp!); they really do love each other. For that I’m grateful.

It’s what my mother always hoped for with my own siblings. I know that relationships go through phases in life that can be hard to predict, let alone prepare for, and I can only hope that the two of them will weather it all together with their relationship intact. It reassures me to know that my kids truly love one another and I hope that they always will.

My daughter spotted me watching them and I darted into the bathroom as if I meant to do so. I sat on the toilet crying with the door closed and quietly waited for it to pass. They know that their mother is a mooshy sentimentalist at heart but they didn’t need their time together interrupted by me. I brushed myself off and emerged to her standing by the door. She hugged me and smiled. She walked away without saying anything.

They worked on her room together and moved his mattress to her floor. They’re doing a slumber party for the next week and having “secret” meetings about whether or not they should share a room once again. I pretend that I don’t know what they’re planning and keep writing…