Eleven, Part Three of Three

9) Sometimes you're an ass.

I dont call you this, I call you my Ornery One or Mr. Negative, but really, asshole would work just fine.

This morning, you choked your sister over a found matchbox car at Cuzuncle David's; and when I said you owed Olive a major apology, you replied, "No I don't."

You stared at the ground and showed zero remorse over grabbing Olive around the neck with your man-hands because she rolled a small yellow car across the table-- a car you wanted.

My parents tell me when I turned eleven they hardly recognized me, their big-brother-hand-me-down-wearing, knees-scraped, Broadway singing, dress-up, feisty girl turned awkward pre-teen. Suddenly sullen and wearing eye shadow that matched my shirt. Slamming doors and crying at will.

Eleven.

If your sister wants to eat outside you say, "Let's eat inside."

"I don't want you to sit next to me," you tell Olive, all the time, even after you play store with her for an hour, laughing when she makes up silly words, loving the creative energy she brings to your logical world.

You stand in her way when she wants to walk in the front door and push against her when she beats you to the sink to wash hands.

You grab Olive by the hair when she tries to help you. You tell her, "No" when she asks you to play.

I remember my older brother at age eleven, calling me to his room to play, bombarding me with pillows when I eagerly joined.

He called me Crusty.

And Crybaby. 

"What are you going to do Christy, cry?" is all Andrew had to say and my lower lip would protrude as my eyes welled.

I have to remind myself about the mayhem that emerges at eleven, so I don't always blame your disabilities for the monster that is sometimes you.

 

10. Self-conscious you are not.

You stand in the trailer with your pajama bottoms around your ankles unable to find a pull-up in your packing bag and accept help from your naked younger sister who easily locates one.

You remain free from the tendency to "compare and despair". You are not insecure or embarrassed by your differences and call all your classmates: My friends. 

You bombard us with thousands of detail specific questions about everything from house numbers to airplane seats but never ask the more soul squeezing one: "Why me?"

You still enjoy shows like Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood and Sid the Science Kid. The only videogames you play are Wii golf and bowling. You know nothing of Hollywood characters, pop bands, or games like "Truth or Dare" and "I Never".

In some ways you are still so young, especially compared to your street-smart peers, kids who watch R-rated movies and play X-rated video games, kids who ask each other "out" and divide into warring cliques at school ready to take their conflicts out on the playground or Instagram or Facebook or whispers behind backs.

You stand alone-- thinking about chairlifts, elevators and trams, machines that magically move people higher...

...far above the pettiness of social cliques and divisions based on assumptions that shatter when lifted.

While others compete with each other for social status, you focus on the process of rising up.

 

 

11. Elias: You are the son I didn't expect. My teacher. My worry that keeps me up at night.  My ache. My hero.  My boy who break my heart apart and rebuilds it stronger. 

My first born. 

My daughter's big brother, Olive's tormentor and idol-- her larger form both to become and to define herself against.

You are the hands that mold me, the knife that slices me apart, and the language I will never master.

The mirage in the distance, the sun that hides behind impenatrable clouds. 

The breath I no longer hold. 

You are Elias, and I love you just so.

 

Comments

[Greta]

Breathless after reading this. For so many reasons. Thank you.

[Danielle]

beautifully put!

[Christy]

Thank you!