The Boy Who Lives In My House is sitting next to me.
Annoying the hell out of me. Butting into my blogosphere.
“Read me A Clown On Fire!! Does he say “balls” today?
Read me Madame Weebles!! The one where she talks about the Internet.
Read me Jen and Tonic!! The one where she farts in her trainer’s face.
Read me Busted Flip Flops!! The one where she sees the school bully.”
*sigh* They’ll be no writing today.
The Boy Who Lives In My House started a blog. He’s written one entry:
October 4, 2013.
“I woke up. Had breakfast. Went to school. Had a Spanish test.
At lunch, I told dead baby jokes. Brendan laughed and water came out of his nose. After school, I had my snack.
I did my homework. Mom went to work and Alison took me to karate.
Childhood is a journey, not a race.”
The Boy Who Lives in My House is defiant. Argumentative. Inflexible.. Draining.
He talks incessantly. My ears bleed.
I question my abilities as a parent. Am I enough to handle his special needs?
The Boy Who Lives In My House is loving. Loyal. Generous. Joyful.
He is insightful. He is pure. He believes in the infinite possibility of everything.
The Boy Who Lives In My House is the most honest person I know.
A quality I cherish in him. The reason I would rather be around him than most adults.
I have days of indescribable joy with him. Sprawled in the new reclining seats at the movies. Gorging on popcorn and candy. Then, an arcade. I used to take him down at air hockey – no more. Home, to a long bike ride. Out to dinner. Tuck him in. “I love you infinity, mama.” Bliss.
The Boy Who Lives In My House has no filter. Like Mama, like Son.
His honesty can be of a merciless, take no prisoners, quality.
His favorite way to begin one of his astonishingly honest yet brutal observations is, “No offense, but…“
And then he kills me softly with his words.
-Last summer vacation on the beach. I’m in a bikini, insecure as I am, cause what the hell do I go to the gym for ?
“No offense but – your biceps look good, but the back of your legs? They REALLY need some work.”
Well, fuck you very much! When I was pregnant with you, I blew up like Shamu at Sea World! Yeah, I work out, but nothing firms up the connective tissue in my hamstrings, you little shit!
-I tell him I’m the coolest mom around.
“No offense, but around here, that’s not saying much.”
Simultaneously slicing me and the spiritual suburban wasteland we live in at the same time. A Double! Such an economy of words!
The Boy Who Lives In My House has had to forge friendships all on his own. He’s done okay. But he’s not fully part of any “besties” clique that he yearns for, the ones that are engineered by the stay at home moms.
I loathe this dynamic. I have failed him in this respect.
But ultimately, The Boy Who Lives In My House will be a better man for this. He just doesn’t know it yet.
The Boy Who Lives In My House is brilliant. As in, staggering 99th percentile intelligence.
Uses words like “iconoclast” and “obsequious.”
Loves to be quizzed in spelling, on words like “anesthesiologist.” Which most anesthesiologists can’t spell.
Upon viewing a commercial, demanded to know what “transvaginal mesh failure” was. Tells me, “it’s just another thing you don’t think I’m old enough to handle. Fine. I’ll just look it up on the computer.” He did.
Came home from sleep away camp sporting a black moustache AND blue painted fingernails. Claimed he was a having a “transgender identity crisis.”
The hardest thing about raising a child to be appropriate? When it’s something you’ve never mastered.
The boy is frequently inappropriate. Has recently been introduced to Dick Hurtz. Dick Gazinya. Tells me he is growing hair on his ball sack. He is 10 years old.
The Boy Who Lives In My House is hilarious. Snappy come backs constantly. Where did he learn that from? His humor is often inappropriate.
His dad tells us about a friend who was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Was given only a year and a half to live.
The Boy Who Lives In My House says,
“Dad, he weighs 350 pounds! He was going to be dead in 6 months anyway! The doctors just gave him an extension.’
And I try not to laugh; I do! But he is just so damn funny it’s near impossible.
The Boy Who Lives In My House is on to me. Knows that disciplines which take away his possessions and activities are more a punishment for me than him.
I threaten to take away his IPod touch; his Rick Riordan books; computer time. He rolls his eyes and said “Why don’t you take away my flying unicorn, too?”
The Boy Who Lives in my House has been diagnosed with lots and lots of letters. ADHD. ODD. SPD. Doctors have been pulling out their prescription pads for him since he was three years old.
But I have not filled them. While a psychotropic cocktail will make him easier to deal with, it may dull his brilliance. I won’t have it. Not yet.
So I worry – every minute, that The Boy Who Lives In My House will crash and burn. He has zero coping skills. Low frustration tolerance. A million thoughts bombarding his brain every minute. He cannot manage them.
I have not figured out the answers. I pray that I will find The Boy Who Lives In My House the right support. That he will grow into a fine young man. I see the signs of it already. He is soulful. Compassionate. Sensitive and kind.
His prodigious love for me, for everyone he loves, is untainted by the pain and rejection that comes with age. His mind is unencumbered by limitations.
As brilliant as he is, he is too young to know that he is this rare and magnificent thing – straightforward and true. And that he is the walking embodiment of innocence.
By the time he understands the meaning of the word “innocence,” he will have lost his.
The Boy Who Lives In My House is growing up too fast. Every time we hold hands, I wonder if it will be the last.