Slowly Clearing the Under Layer

On edge.

That's how I’d describe Elias since we moved from the cabin to the trailer. Which means we are all walking that fine line between an amiable family of four and chaos. Which means we all need space from each other, with little to give.

“We live in a trailer.” Elias said this morning, the king of announcing the obvious.

“I know Bud. How are you adjusting to the change?”

“Not good.”

His answer gave me a wry smile. At least he sees his own reflection. Does he sense that it makes me rub my eyes more often, pour myself more evening mugs of wine.

“It won't be forever.”

He’s gone after his sister multiple times, over what appears to be nothing, refused to comply with simple directions, hid his face in his arms, placed his head on the table when we've asked him to brush his teeth, get dressed.

He's thirteen. And he experiences autism. A confusing concoction of both unexpected outbursts and a boy turned into a formless lump of clay unable to choose anything to do.

And he is our beacon of honesty-- with no filters to help him adapt to change with anything close to grace.

And I get it it. His unease. I miss the woodstove, internet, a flush toilet, hot water, the loft to put space between us. And though I don't want to throw Olive on the ground, I wouldn't mind howling every once in a while, or chucking stuffies across our small moist box of a home.

One difference is I have Nick-- and I can get through any challenge with his blue eyes looking at mine, with his mind, his hands, his humor, his patience, his ability to problem solve. So for me, trailer life is still a love story, an adventure, a step closer to our dream home on this land we never want to leave. I can live this compacted life for as long as it takes to get there. I see it as a waystop. 

Elias lives in the moment, in the trailer, out of reach, unable to communicate the nuanced emotions he feels with words. So he swings his cane. Shake his head. Growls. He refuses to wear a brand new pair of shoes, choosing his beat-up Keens, too small, holes and all, because he just can't handle another change.

The end of school, with his predictable routine and team of educators who devised a schedule that both pushed and supported Elias in so many healthy ways, means he’s stuck with his poetic Mom for most of the day, who resists set plans, clocks, and mealtimes. “What are we going to have for dinner?” he asks as I’m washing the breakfast dishes. “What are we going to do tomorrow?” he asks at night. He can only see forward if there are marks on a calandar, squares to check, otherwise he's swimming in unease when the moment isnt warm or light.

And I know I can be better about organizing our summer days, we are working on increasing his hours for respite and day-hab and hoping perhaps he can participate in part of the day camp his sister attends, as he reads her schedule almost every day after she leaves.

And yet Olive also needs time without her brother. Fear-free for a few hours, at least, without his eyes or hands on her, as she is his favorite target, his outlet for all his pent up frustration.

Nick and I dance between our children. In a trailer of 30 feet. Surrounded by endless acres of woods with views of white capped mountains and Resurrection Bay.

After a rough morning that involved a lot of head shaking from my boy the evolved into frustrated tears, that led to me to leave him in the trailer for awhile, I decided to return and ask: “Do you want to start over?”

Elias looked up at me, curious, less guarded.

“Lets have a do over and begin this day again, what do you say?” 

And though he didn't smile, his frown decreased as he said, “Yeah.”

“Put on your shoes and lets go up top.” Up top is what we call our house sight, after living below it in a cabin all winter. Our trailer is not yet parked on our clearing, but on David's driveway until the framing crew finishes sometime next week.

"Mom do you want to find some trees for me to break?” Elias asked, referring to one of his favorite pastimes, snapping dead alder and spruce as we work on clearing out our woods.

“I sure do—and I’ll even help you.”

As I write, I still have pine needles in my hair, stuck in my bra, down my pants, but Elias and I connected this morning, in a thick tangle of woods, as we broke branches and pulled small dead firs out of the ground, roots and all. My thirteen-year-old son laughed with me when I fell over as a big dead Alder branch snapped under my weight. He beamed with pride when he pulled out the whole root ball of a Spruce. "Roots and all! Roots and all!" he repeated.

If we didn't get hungry, and if we didnt have a few hours of respite scheduled in the afternoon, we’d probably still be in those woods, slowly clearing the under layer, letting in more light, with nothing but a pair of clippers and the strength of our hands, our shoulders, our core.

(From Elias's school journal)

I think I just figured out our new morning routine.

Comments

[Toni]

:)

[Joanna]

I love this! I have an autistic 3 year old and I love those moments when we're able to turn the day around. I know that feeling of walking on eggshells. I really admire that you take risks and lean into your adventurous side despite the challenges.

[Christy]

Thank you Joanna, at times it feels a little crazy and other times it feels just so right. Those eggshell days are no fun, hoping for smoother paths for both of us:)