As I've written before, I sometimes wonder who Elias would be if he'd stayed secure in my womb full-term; but this thought-tunnel dead ends in a dark place--no amount of imagination can reverse my cervix from opening in the middle of our 24th week. The "what if" wondering only loops barbed-wire around my heart, restricting my sense of acceptance for the boy who calls me Mom.
The boy who transformed me from a carefree individual to a mother with so much to lose. A mother with so little control over the beings she creates. A mother.
At seventeen, Elias relies on us to cut his meat into bite-sized pieces, wash his hair in the shower, pack his bag of supplies he takes wherever he goes. He does not drive, he reads signs and labels but not books, and he still repeats almost anything he says, a constant echo by our side, asking questions he knows how to answer.
Mom, Mom, is it sunny today? Is it sunny today? Mom...
We are starting the process of guardianship, because at eighteen he will still need us to make decisions on his behalf. I do not know what adulthood means for Elias. Will he always want to live with us or will he choose to move to a group home in town? Will his love of recycling lead to meaningful work in the community? Will his independence improve or regress over time?
None of our children arrive with magic balls, they all come as mystery packages that unfold before us in a myriad of unexpected ways. And no matter how hard we try to keep them safe, our role as parents is to release them to their own winding trails. We can't pave over every boulder, can't define which way they turn, can't prevent them from moving too quickly, stalling out, or ending up flipped over in a ditch the middle of the night without cell service.
As parents, we let go, and we let go, and we let go, all while trying to grasp the meaning within strands of hair, crumbs, and footprints left behind.
At seventeen, Elias still loves spending time with his parents, sitting inches from us on the couch or standing between us when we talk. He eagerly changes over the laundry, empties the garbage, and helps his Dad take the trash and recycling to the transfer station. He enjoys clipping the lower branches from Spruce and Hemlock, digging rocks out of new beds, and walking around the garden with his Mom asking questions about the various flowers. He loves when adults come to visit, tours them around our house with pride, and almost always says, "I'm so happy you are here. Are you happy to be here? Are you happy to be here?"
At seventeen, Elias still volunteers a couple times a week at the Sealife Center, recycling cans and paper, greeting all the staff with a big smile. People across town know him by name, even folks I don't recognize. On his respite days, he drives around town with his workers (who he calls "his friends"), listening to Queen, happily checking out neighborhoods and "getting lost" on the various backroads. He enjoys visiting the library, the teen center, and the various beaches around Resurrection Bay.
At seventeen, Elias can be a stubborn ass one moment and a charming enthusiast the next. He generally saves his worst behavior for his family and his beloved teacher who has worked with him for all our five-years in Seward. Often people from the community have no idea that the cheerful handicapped kid they see can also break skin and leave bruises in fits of rage. Rage that comes less frequently now, but with increased strength and intensity when the tornado of unbridled emotion wreaks havoc on our home.
Other times its the lack of emotion that frustrates me. The lump on the couch who stretches his elbow up in the air, rubs his eyes, and ignores every request we make-- or says, "Ok" but doesn't move. The statue that sits at the table in the morning staring at his food but not eating, talking, or reacting, despite the time limit to get shit done.
Some of this comes with the territory of teen-hood and some of it comes with his various diagnoses from autism to cerebral palsy to ADHD to anxiety to visual impairment to... I lose track of them all.
The labels mix in my mind with his blue eyes, curly blonde hair, raspy voice, and sense of humor. Who he is on paper is not who stumbles through the door.
None of us are.
None of us come with a clear list of ingredients, directions, or projections.
We are all unfolding stories, made of breath and water, emotions and thoughts, blood and bones, who dance and fumble our way through this ocean of life we call home.
We all defy expectations as we choose our steps across this ravaged but gorgeous landscape.
We are all mysteries in action, just rolling, awkwardly, beautifully, with the wind.