Live outloud

Last night my children and I attended a friend's senior basketball game. This friend has served as an informal mentor to my youngest. We live across the street from the school she attends, and last spring she welcomed my 5-year-old as he unceremoniously but confidently joined her track practices. At the time, my son was attending pre-k and we were struggling as a family to figure out his needs. He is bright, kind, and one of the most compassionate and emotionally sensitive souls I have ever met. He is also neurodiverse. I quit my job to respond to the phone calls from the school ("He's eloped again!"), stay with him when I could not bodily get him out the door, take him to doctor's appointments, and fight for an IEP. Over the last year he has made tremendous progress. He is regulated more often than not, maintains beautiful friendships with his kindergarten peers, and did not miss a single day of school this past month. I still spend ever day in an "alert" to "high alert" state, but I am so grateful for our current trajectory.

Last evening we burst into the gym as the starting buzzer sounded, and my son immediately, without preamble, yelled, "Go, W!" Everyone turned to look, and I gave a self-deprecating, motherly-indulgent smile.

My son, C, moved to the edge of the court, threw off his coat, and stood at attention in his bright pink boots and black snowsuit suspenders, 100% committed to his role as cheerleader. He did not stop yelling "Go, W!" for the entire four periods. He was the loudest and most persistent supporter and even acquired blue pompoms at one point. He seemed completely uninterested in anyone aside from his idol on the court. His sister looked suitably embarrassed as a mature 8-year-old sibling should be. Twice I had occasion to whisper, in a low and threatening voice, "Don't you dare tell him to be quiet."

I was uncomfortable. I didn't know the people in the crowd, and I didn't want to distract the players. C was relentless and almost feverish in his yelling. I cycled through my worries: I worried about him running onto the court. I worried about the ref or another parent chastising me. I worried that the children's blood sugar levels would drop and they would lose their sh*t at an inopportune moment because it was dinnertime. I worried that I appeared over-indulgent. I worried about what people would think of him. I worried that I worried about him too much and not enough about my daughter. But I sat with those feelings because I have had a fair amount of therapy and am really trying not to control him or the world's response to him. He wasn't hurting anyone; he was joyfully celebrating someone he loves. My embarrassment and worry co-existed with this joy, but I acknowledged them instead of letting them rule my actions.

One of my favorite quotes is Emile Zola's, "If you ask what I came into this world to do, I will tell you -- I came to live outloud." It is difficult for me to embody this philosophy in my daily life. For the first 30 some-odd years I strove to be the perfect acolyte of the patriarchy - my body, my academic pursuits, my productivity, my voice. I am polite and dutiful, reliable, responsible, reflective, and keenly aware of how I am perceived by others. My children, in contrast, are wild horses. I am in awe of them daily, and their authenticity gives me courage. I want my children to be kind and respectful, but I don't want them to be quiet if they need to be loud.

We returned the pompoms after the game, hugged and congratulated the star player, and went home where my children did indeed lose their sh*t briefly out of fatigue and hunger. But goddammit my son lived outloud, and I let him do it.