Transitions take our feet out from under us, make our knees weak, our hearts hurt, especially ones we don't plan. The loss of a beloved teacher, the disappearance of a pet, grandparents saying goodbye before a flight home.
Our boy, Elias, comes without filters, without the ability to express his feelings in words, and grief too often arrives as rage.
After a few somewhat peaceful years, with months between violent outbursts, this spring, the bear in our boy awoke from hibernation, claws raised.
I call him my boy, but technically, at 18, the world views Elias as a man, with deeper repercussions for inappropriate unexpected behavior.
If he swings at his Mom in the parking lot of the State Fair, because he wants to go home with Grandma and Pop, will someone walking by call the police?
If the police respond when he is stuck in his amygdala, fighting anyone who stands in his way, will we always get there in time to tell them: "He is on the autism spectrum."
Will they always know what this means and how to de-escalate the situation?
Will new teachers know his warning signs and how to distract, reframe, or use humor to re-set his brain?
Most folks only see the social, curious, always-interrupting-and-standing-too-close side of Elias, and find it hard to believe that sometimes an injured Grizzly emerges from within, willing to die fighting.
Most of the time he seems harmless.
Until he's not.
There is nothing easy about living with a son who sometimes tries to hurt the very people he loves--not because he wants to, but because he's trapped back in his brain, injured at birth, when he had no words to cry for help.
At 24 weeks, Elias left the quiet darkness of my womb, only to get stuck in my birth canal long enough for his heart to stop, his brain to shut down.
When the medical staff resuscitated him, Elias found himself under electric lights, alarms buzzing, with all the NICU babies crowded into one room, abuzz with machines and maternal angst.
His undeveloped nervous system matured not in warm waters, with the sound of his Mama's heartbeat, but in the frenetic chaotic environment that one of my visitors referred to as a "baby factory".
That "baby factory" saved Elias's life, and the dedicated, loving staff repaired my heart multiple times as they physically repaired his, they held me up, they helped Nick and me communicate with each other, as a new husband and wife, who had just had our expectations of parenthood blown to smithereens.
He's alive but I can't tell you he's going to survive: the first words I heard about Elias.
As hard as that statement is to hear, truth lives in those words for all of us.
No manuscripts for motherhood, no protocols for parenthood, no guarantees for this life of ours that can change directions in a heartbeat, whack us in the knees right when we foresee smooth walking ahead.
Our expectations of parenthood blown to smithereens.
We live on edge these days. Waiting for the next explosion. Wondering if the bear lurks in the shadows, around the next bend.
And yet I know we aren't the only ones who often feel like we hold more than we can carry. I know parents everywhere worry about the next day, about yesterday, about the things we can not see.
Whether we are ready or not, the leaves will change from green to gold and then they will no longer cling to the tree.
Life is not easy.
In my intro lessons about my role as an Elementary School Counselor, I bring in a backpack and a tool box. I pull out school supplies from the backpack and have the students raise their hand if they brought them too--gym shoes, water bottle, snacks, pencils...
Then I say, "There's something else we all bring to school every day, whether we realize it or not..."
Out of my pack, I retrieve a heart made out of paper. "Sometimes our heart is light like this paper heart, on these days we feel peaceful, loved, happy...but some days our heart feels heavy..."
I take out a large stone heart and let them know we all have days when we feel sad, angry, scared, which makes it harder to learn, and that my job as a School Counselor is to be another safe adult in the building to support students with big feelings.
I show them the tools I use from my tool box, books, crayons, games, shells, pretend ears for listening, Mr Potato Head arms for hugs or a helping hand, a mirror to reflect back to them what they are feeling and to help them find the answers within.
The last tools I pull out are a Harry Potter wand that Olive made and a big red easy button that when pressed says: "That was easy."
I end by saying: "I wish I could wave this magic wand over all of you and you would never feel sad or scared. Never have any problems, never hurt your heart. Never get into an argument or feel left out.
And yet first, I don't have that much power, and second, its is through our challenges that we grow to become stronger, kinder, braver people.
Noone has an easy button. Everyone has difficulties, even those who seem perfect on the outside carry hard things.
And yet what I've learned over the years, is that when we share our problems with others, they do become easier."
Thank you, dear readers, for giving me this place to unload and share. Life may never be easy, but it's easier with all of you.