Elias turned seventeen this month.
Seventeen years of living longer and larger than expected.
My boy who defied the odds and survived his birth at 24 weeks, my teenager who sits next to me on the couch as I write, his legs crossed, his hands holding his i-pad as he checks out sports scores on ESPN.
Just a typical boy following his favorite teams. Take away the disabilities that mark him as different and underneath, or within, remains a kid with a sense of humor who roots for the Broncos and eats tacos for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
Elias challenges me, strengthens me, expands me in ways I never foresaw back when parenthood stood on the horizon as a someday affair. Back when I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl "as long as it was healthy".
Elias's multiple diagnoses and health issues bring unexpected gifts along with their thorns.
At seventeen, he still enjoys activities with his family, something as simple as a car ride can make him smile. This weekend we skated on a couple different lakes and though Elias only wore his "imaginary skates" he loved both outings, saying over and over again: "Not everybody gets to do this!"
"Not everybody gets to do this!"
On Trail Lake, Nick and I played pond hockey for a couple hours while Olive played with friends and Elias sat on the tail of our car in single digit temperatures, content to chat with anyone that walked past.
Instead of withdrawing into teenage angst, Elias approaches people with ease and often says, "They were so happy to see me!"
"They are all so happy I'm here!"
"Everyone loves having me there!"
Imagine if every adolescent felt this confident. Imagine if all teenagers stopped comparing themselves to others.
Imagine if everyone felt good enough.
I often call this one of the gifts of autism, Elias's inability to see himself through the eyes of others. He meanders through the world convinced that every room he enters contains only adoring fans. Everyone he meets he wants to invite over to our house for a tour, for dinner, for sledding down our driveway. Everyone he meets stands before him as a potential friend, as someone who likes him.
And honestly, its hard not to like the social, easily excited Elias, unless all you see is the cane, the awkward gait, the eyes that don't focus on yours. If you only hear his damaged vocal chords and not the words that say: "I'm so happy you are here!"
"I really like working with you!"
"Thank you for being here!"
On this Valentine's Day afternoon, I can't help but think that I am a more loving person because of parenting Elias through his particular path through life, this off-beat trail that somehow became the place I feel most at home.
"Not everybody gets to do this!"
"Not everybody gets to do this!"
And yes, on plenty of grey days I hide underneath my covers of despair longing for a different slice of parenthood, a mirage in which Elias entered the world full-term and healthy--but these dreams never fill my cup.
No, tonight I drink the tonic of acceptance, the tonic of grace, the tonic of wonder for this world with so many various ways of being alive, whole, and just right.
Not everybody gets to to this!
Thank you for being here!
They are all so happy I'm here!