Its just so damn hard.

"I don't want to go to school. Do you not want to go to school?"

"I do," I lie.

I really want to crawl back in bed and sleep till noon.

"I don't want to go to school." Elias leans his body against mine.

"I think you're just tired, so am I. But we're gonna have great days."

"No, I'm going to have a terrible day."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I just am. I'm going to have a terrible day."

"Why?"

"I don't like school."

"Tell me what you don't like about school."

Elias rubs his eyes and stares at his toast.

I place my hands on his head. "Give me one good reason."

"I don't like all the stuff we have to do."

Ok, that's a good reason. I don't like all the stuff we have to do either.

"What would you do if you didn't go?'

"I don't know."

"Would you just sit there and say I don't know all day?"

This is how our morning conversations often go, but when its time to walk out that front door, Elias doesn't resist. I sometimes think this is just his morning habit or routine now, to say out-loud what many of us feel before 8:00 a.m.

Elias and I walk together to school every morning, down our front steps, along Logan street and around the corner to 16th. We talk about the icy sidewalk and often pass the middle school bus picking up students, which always causes Elias to stop and watch the flashing lights.  When we reach the side of the school Elias like helping me unlock the door and once inside I give him his backpack so he can roll it down the hall. Elias walks easily into Camp Fire without complaint, often saying, "Do you like my rolling backpack?"

He doesn't cry when I say good bye.

But the other morning I did. I sat in my office, my back to the door, unable to keep my tears captured inside. And this is why.

Before I left the Camp Fire room, I watched as Elias put his canes in the corner, pulled the game Sorry from the shelf, held it with both hands, and carried it across the room.

Something I once thought he would never be able to do, walk while holding something, besides a walker or canes.

Elias walked up to the nearest adult and asked her to play. She was still eating breakfast with some other kids and declined.

I expected him to put the game down next to her and fiddle with the top, but instead he carried it over to a boy playing Legos and said, "Do you want to play with me?"

The boy shook his head.

Elias turned towards another boy, took a few steps towards him without getting too close, called him by name, and asked him to play.

Wasn't it just yesterday that I longed for him to engage with other kids in an age-appropriate way?

"No thanks," the boy said.

Elias didnt give up, he said a girl's name and asked her to play, and she too turned him down.

He carried that Sorry game to one more student, a girl on the spectrum, like him, said her name, "Do you want to play with me?"

She shrugged. "No."

Finally, the adult he first asked, told him she would play with him in a little bit; and unfazed, Elias said, "I was just thinking I was gonna have to wait."

Meanwhile he is still standing on his own, balanced, while holding that damn box in his hands.

And I think the ugly combination of Elias saying he didn't like school, and then watching him actually reach out appropriately to other kids, only to be rejected, made me lose it in my office chair and remain on the edge of weeping for most of the day barely holding it together to respond to everyone else's needs.

I had to keep reminding myself that Elias stood, still smiling, when I walked out of Camp Fire.

He is not me.

I am the one who took the rejections personally. Jumping to the conclusion that its not just that they dont want to play Sorry, but that they don't want to play with my son.

And I should pause here.

And tell you about the other evening when I picked Elias up from Camp Fire, and there he lay on the floor with an older boy, a boy who is often in the office, angry and sullen, looking at a giant dog breed book together, and how the boy said, "Hide Elias, hide from your Mom," and how he helped my son take cover behind the book, and oh, the smile on their faces when I pretended I couldn't find Elias anywhere.

I should just stay right there, in that moment, forever believing in the inclusive hearts of children.

Live in this place of acceptance and joy.

Not return to our home the last few evenings, where all I've wanted to do, in theory, is show my boy how much I love him, enjoy our family time where we sit united around the table, holding hands and giving thanks, only to have these moments squashed by Elias 's illogical rage over a water carafe not put in the exact right spot.

Or a sister standing on the toilet seat to brush her teeth when he doesn't think she should stand there and his way of expressing this is by slamming his body against hers.

I just want to just show him how much we love him, and need him, and want him in our life, but its hard when he's screaming: "I want to push Olive off the toilet."

"I want to hit you!"

"I want to hurt you!"

Its just so damn hard.

*****

PS. I always feel better after writing and when I finished this I snuck into Elias's room, found him under his cocoon of blankets, placed my hand on his head, and listened to him breathe.

Comments

[Sara]

This brings tears to my eyes too. Mostly because I see soooo many parallels between your parenting of Elias (and Olive) and my own parenting of Toby (and Hannah). It's so easy to go further than what's right in front...and worry. And then you are reminded of their - perfection.

[Sally]

I'm sitting here in subway in Montana. This is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever read. Thank you.

[Lisa]

Tears in my eyes too. And understanding. Thank you for your words.

[Christy]

Thank you Sara, and Sally, and Lisa, for letting me know you not only understand but are touched by my words. It sure helps knowing I can connect with others even when I feel overwhelmed or alone. This is what I love about the internet.