The accumulation of moments

My cat, Petite Puce ("my little flea") bit my son while he snuggled her before school this morning. C is proud of his quiet ability to connect with animals, so the emotional betrayal was stronger than the physical pain -- the bite didn't even break the surface. The way he handled the situation, though, was proof of his recent growth.

After she bit him, C cried and refused to get into the car... but then he agreed to come outside if I kept Puce at bay. He refused to exit the vehicle once we parked at school, but a kind friend saw B waiting for me and walked her to the drop off point so I could stay with C and read him Mossy by Jan Brett. Then, with a minor amount of cajoling, he exited the car on his own, walked to and through the school entrance on his own, and set off for his classroom on his own. I signed him in, and he was only 12 minutes tardy.

His emotional growth, increase in stamina, and my own ability to hold panic at bay has increased - what? 100 fold?

Last year at this time it was a tremendous struggle to get him to take his medicine every morning. He still had his pacifier at school. He experienced night terrors. We couldn't enroll him in any summer camps. My husband and I had just signed the first IEP document. I lived in a state of high alert, because at any second he could bolt, or scream, or lash out in unpredictable ways, more extreme ways than the other children around him. It's hard to explain the challenge to people who don't have neurodiverse children. Oh, every kid has a tough time! But it's not typical to live in fear for and of your child nearly every second of the day.

It makes me angry when people say to appreciate every second of your offspring's childhood. Would you tell someone going through a trauma to appreciate every second of it, that someday they'd look back and miss this moment in time? That would be sadistic.

I always, always, always wanted children, from the time I could hold and pretend to nurse my baby stuffed monkey. I started my own babysitting business at age 10. I almost filled out a foster application in law school because I was so desperate in my need to love and care for a child. And I am desperately in love with my own children now. I wouldn't change a single thing about them, or anything we've gone through, but that doesn't mean it wasn't traumatic.

Comparisons are how I make sense of the world. I've always prided myself on my ability to withstand physical discomfort: multiple stiches growing up, hiking, running. Some of it is genetics, the other piece a tangle of motivations. But having children has been more physically and mentally challenging, by far, than anything I've ever done. The excruciating pain of breastfeeding, way worse than an unmedicated childbirth (for me); the inability of my first child to sleep without being held upright for a minimum of 4 months; the post-partum depression where I wished to die; the pretty much non-stop screaming in the car whenever we drove our children anywhere for the first 4 to 5 years of their lives; the regular night terrors; the elopements; the very physical tantrums from very strong and healthy children, tantrums that resulted in broken lamps and furniture and marks on my skin; the hours in the emergency room.

It has not been all pretzels and beer, but I'm not asking for a pity party. And maybe I'm overly sensitive and someone else could have handled things much better and with less drama. We'll never know, because I am who I am and my kids are my kids. Regardless, I'm incredibly grateful for these experiences, because I think any type of suffering in life allows us to be more empathetic toward our fellow human beings if we have the privilege of recovering and reflecting afterward. The friends I have found who bear witness to my pain without judgment, who love my children, are among the greatest gifts that life has ever bestowed on me. I'm learning how to witness my children's pain, too, and my hope is that I can teach them how to weather life's storms with eyes wide open. If I can do that without stigmatizing them, that will be a great accomplishment. Why are we afraid when others show feral emotions? Why must we other them? We'll probably all experience each state of emotional being, to some degree, during our lives: pain that makes us want to tap out of consciousness, fear that makes us want to hide from the world, disappointment that crowds out every other thought, shame that is crippling, and all the other Big Feelings we don't have the words to articulate. No one is immune.

No, I do not want to relive the earlier years. I'm not painting them with a broad brush; there are many happy memories that I've tucked away, too. But I want to appreciate the present moments because they are the beautiful accumulation, the fruit, of all the other moments. Yesterday we visited the dentist, hair salon, and Panera, and my children busted through each and every door like one of Rumi's whirling dervishes. They made friends with every person they encountered: the burly checkout guy at the gas station who looked like an extra from the tavern scene in Tangled; the tired, tattooed stylist at Super Cuts, kind even after we knocked over her trash can and nearly broke the hydraulic lever on the salon chair; the young woman trying to work at Panera with her headphones and geriatric dog; the other family enjoying the over-priced but delicious fast-casual fare. They made me laugh: OMG if I have a chip company I'm going to call it CHIP and Dales! Hahahahaha! They sat by themselves at a little table in the cafe, chatting like two tiny criminals planning a heist. They asked for an extra baguette from the kitchen when they wanted one and told their neighbors their birthdays. They asked me random questions: When you die, do you come back? They stole my phone and answered my friend's call while I was driving: HELLOOOOO we got haircuts can you come over guess what I lost a tooth this morning STOP IT wait can you come over I had margarita pizza for dinner! IS THIS ON SPEAKER?

My children, and all children, are amazing. And no wonder they're exhausted. On top of learning to self-regulate, they're learning how to frickin' read and write. C's Kinder Communicator explained that the class is practicing writing about their personal experiences and opinions, capitalizing letters, exploring the weather system, studying Earth Day, and memorizing poetry. It's basically harder than when I studied abroad and tried to understand Les Liaisons Dangereuses in the foreign university's literature class, equipped as I was with the French language skills of a toddler.

The minds of my children are exploding universes, and who knows what solar systems they will create.

The years teach much the days never know. Emerson