It’s baffling to me that something tiny enough to fit in my closed fist already carries everything it needs to become a massive oak. It too much to take in, an entire galaxy in the pin point prick of a star. And yet all the greatest achievements were at first only a speck, a wish, a dream. A bird growing inside the egg, waiting with tight, folded wings.
Merry Christmas anyway. Even though there are no sugarplums dancing over your head, or the sinful, heady scent of rolls rising.
I like to believe, one day there will be again.
“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are […]
I know that if plan A doesn’t work, the alphabet still has 25 other letters. And I have used every single one of those letters, all the way down to plan Z. I also know that if you speak Chinese, their alphabet has over 50,000 characters. Fifty freaking thousand characters, which is a LOT of plan B’s. Also, I may need to learn Chinese.
I’ve been thinking a lot about those who share, and share, and share, even though they know it’s not enough, it will never be enough. They take what they have, asking that it will be enough, that it will rise and stretch, that the yeast will grow and that all the hungry mouths will be fed.
On those ridiculously dark night, when the weight of love is as dense and heavy as an untouched fruit cake; I’ve wondered if all the talking, listening, reasoning and reassuring makes even a chink in the armor of autism, let alone a dent in the shield. But, my ace up my sleeve is knowing I can perseverate too. In fact, love compels me to repeat something intently or redundantly, usually to an exceptional degree or beyond a desired point. I choose to believe that the weight of love will be decisive. That the gravity of devotion is cumulative, that it all matters.
All the times I wiped noses, wiped butts, buckled boys in car seats, and stopped on the side of the road every other mile to REBUCKLE them in car seats, matter. All the hours nursing children with the stomach flu, the cracked nipples, ER visits and bouts of biting. All the landforms formed, PE clothes washed, forgotten lunches delivered. All the binkies found, Halloween costumes created, knees bandaged, and apples peeled. All the books read, boundaries set, chores enforced, and meadows checked. The sleepless nights stumbled through, the lullabies sung, the waiting in long lines for the ferris wheel. The parent teacher conferences, the scolding absorbed, the laundry washed, pancakes flipped, tempers held and crusts removed, it all counts.
Sandwiched between his two autistic brothers, Spencer has never had first dibs on pretty much anything. He has assumed, ie been forced into the role of peace maker, negotiator, soother, sacrificer, sympathizer and protector, ands all before he turned four.
We had been locked in a dead sprint towards the finish line, trying to keep up or catch up, or just not fall. “We just have to get through these last few weeks…” I’d say to myself over and over agains as I ran around finding props for plays, or making cupcakes for the banquet, throwing his white dress shirt into the dryer with a damp towel again and again so he’d appear unwrinkled, care for.
So, It’s my first pandemic, and I have nothing to wear! Don’t be fooled like I was. You know how it is, all your life […]