Summer is palpable right now. I can hear it billowing through the wide open windows and screen doors; the playful squeals from neighbourhood kids, the hum of distant lawn mowers, and the hullabaloo of nesting birdsong, all breeze through the house, bringing it to life. The tree leaves stretch open and fill the gaps between branches; their blossoms bursting with colour and sweet scents. The landscape is changing from grey and brown to technicolour right before our eyes. I can taste the crunch of sweet corn on the cob and almost smell the burgers sizzling on the grill. My three year old has taken to running his little hands up and down my bare arms and legs, no longer contained by the leggings and sweatshirts that have become routine. He is fascinated by so much exposed skin on his mama. He too is completely sold on the idea of living barefoot, in a bathing suit, or not much at all, for the foreseeable future. Sweaters and jackets still hang on the hallway hooks, remnants of our brief shoulder season. The odd scarf or glove that had gone unnoticed amongst them in the recent winter gear round-up, are now glaringly out of place, now that we have added ball caps and sandals. No matter that we are in Ontario and it is still May. No heed is paid to the certainty of requiring pants and long sleeves again, before we truly can say we’ve arrived. We’ll take the tease of summer, thank you very much. We’ve earned it.
I kick off my flip flops, place my feet up on the edge of the fire table, adjust the cushion behind me, and lean back to admire the backyard taking shape before me. The trickle of hose water, soaking the roots of the newly planted golden beeches, sounds like a fountain – maybe we should add a fountain next? The vegetable seedlings are taking root in the planters and pots I set up last weekend, and the hydrangea standard seems to have accepted its newly transplanted location, from the look of the fresh green leaves sprouting from its pruned branches. We’ve worked our asses off in this backyard over the years, the last two weekends of no exception. Boy has it helped to quell the panic that keeps bubbling to the surface. Each shovel pierced into the soil and heaved to another part of the yard, a weight lifted and a burden eased. Each square foot of mulch raked and leveled, a stroke of comfort to calm my anxious, racing heart. As with my workouts, each bead of sweat from this outdoor labour has been far more cathartic than even my tears have been able to offer.
We’ve made it through the toughest stretch; I can feel it.
I open my laptop and click on the link to the sale ending tonight, and call H to sit down beside me. The kid has grown so much this past year, in every way, and he needs a new wardrobe if he is to be clothed on days higher than 18 degrees celsius. He flops down beside me, scooching right against me, as we huddle to browse the selection. I’m surprised at his atypical eagerness. We select the filters that reduce the choices to only what fits, and realize the dilemma of being in lockdown and reduced to online shopping alone, whilst in limbo between kid and adult sizing – not too much to choose from and all will be a proportion gamble. I allow the add of any item to my virtual shopping cart, with the intention of making decisions before checkout. Typically, he’d have enough patience to select three or four items – none of which would have been practical, and all of which would have been based on a friend’s apparel and what was deemed popular. Instead, I suppress my delight, allowing only a cool smile and a twinkle in my eye, as he points out the teal tone-on-tone tropical tee, the neon yellow shorts, and the rainbow plaid hoodie for cool summer nights. I nudge him playfully with my elbow, instantly wondering if I’ll regret offering the unsolicited touch.
He smiles, and nudges back!
We continue clicking away and until we have exhausted options and begin our discerning filter of the cart. I point out which items don’t qualify for today’s deal and aren’t good value for the full price. We agree to “save for later” in case they go on sale another day. We delete a few items that feel too similar to others, and make sure everything has multiple options to mix and match. I do not want another summer of clothes that go unworn, adorning his drawers, and rejected daily. Typically, he would have kicked up a fuss at wanting something over-the-top expensive, or completely impractical, or even something I knew to be a fad that he’d regret before it even arrived. Today is different. Today he nods and takes the opportunity to point out a few things that he chose but doesn’t love, with the suggestion of removing them, and then another two to bring the price to a budget we had discussed at the outset of our shopping excursion! He even suggests an item that his brother would love, and one that his sister would find fun!
Shit, we’ve taken too long in browsing options for them now and one of his graphic tees is no longer available. My breath catches. He is definitely going to flip his lid now.
“Aw, that sucks,” H shrugs indifferently, as he stands to slip on his slides.
“Do you want to choose another instead?” I offer.
“Nah, that’s okay,” he calls over his shoulder before heading up the deck steps and back into the house.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding, and I pick up my glass of wine to take the last sip, just as the string lights, looped along the fence line, turn on, casting a yellow glow, in a complementary contrast with the blueness of dusk.
He’s different. THIS is different. Can this really be happening?
Stretching the cover over the couch, I continue with the backyard nightly close-up routine.
Wind down the umbrella.
Tent the garden bed with chicken wire.
Turn off the hose, reel it in and hang it up.
Close up the sandbox, cover it, and close the toy bins.
Collect odds and ends that need to go inside – today an odd wet sock, two pairs of muddy running shoes, a plastic cup, granola bar wrapper, dog leash and my laptop.
Inside I remind H of the time, and ask him to head up to bed. He moans, but reluctantly shuts off the television and rolls off the couch onto his feet, in a tired hunch. He’s ready for sleep. Typically, there would be a time warning, then another, then a back and forth in an attempt to negotiate more time. There would often be yelling, and of course, those times when the suggestion of bed was somehow an insult, a personal rejection of him alone. Today is different. Today he rounds the couch and I tense up, expecting him to stomp by me muttering “pisshead” or “penis” like usual. My eyes quickly assess our surroundings for potential danger or fragile items, expecting him to shove anything that threatens to come within a foot of him, as he continues to his typically, assumed, punishment of sleep. Today is different. Today he pauses in front of me and leans towards me.
I take a sharp intake of breath as I realize what is happening.
It’s not the abrupt, heavy, lean of his body against mine, for which I have to brace myself, while still refraining from any reciprocation that would be rejected aggressively. That would be him sensory seeking in his safe place.
This is different.
He nuzzles his cheek against my body, in an invitation. I don’t waste the opportunity, and wrap my arms around him to pull him closer. He starts to pull away and I ask if we can count.
“Do you know, hugging someone you love for 20 seconds, releases the bonding hormone oxytocin, which can lower your blood pressure, slow your heart rate and improve your mood? I just read about it. Trust me, it will feel good.” 1
He agrees with his eyes, and raises his arms to reach around me. I squeeze him lovingly. ONE. TWO. THREE. My heart pounds with the memory of how much he used to love hugging me. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. It’s been so long and yet my heart remembers. SEVEN. EIGHT. I allow myself to commit each detail to memory, not knowing how long it will be before he lets me do this again. NINE, TEN. I smell his hair, noting the shampoo from last night’s shower. ELEVEN. I memorize each freckle. TWELVE.Each speck in his chestnut eyes. THIRTEEN. Each little curve of his nose and lips. FOURTEEN. I feel his arms; his skin is still little-kid soft. FIFTEEN. I note the smudge of chocolate on his chin and resist the urge to wipe it away. SIXTEEN. I only barely reach around him and am almost eye to eye in height, and I am reminded that he will be a teen before long. SEVENTEEN. I see the new little hairs on his upper lip and know it’s true. EIGHTEEN. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and hear his sigh of annoyance, but feel his own embrace tighten around me. NINETEEN. He’s hugging me back! TWENTY! See! Didn’t that feel good? He pulls away, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and off he climbs, up the staircase, to his bedroom, where his dad is waiting to say goodnight.
I call up, “goodnight H! I love you,” as I typically do, and turn to head into the kitchen, not expecting a response. Just as I pivot away, his words reach me:
“Goodnight. I love you too.”
I gasp, as if I had been holding my breath, and my heart swells, no longer drowning in heartache for him, for us, but instead filling with hope.
Today is different.
Today he is different.
Today we are different.
I should have known; there’s nothing typical about my neurodiverse firecracker – one of the many reasons I love him so!
Today marks two weeks since first starting a mood stabilizer for anxiety and depression, and seven weeks since beginning a non-stimulant for ADHD and Tourettes. We are hopeful we have found the dosage that works for H to feel well and calm enough to continue the cognitive behaviour therapy we have had in place for years. I have shared this post with his permission.