Quick side story: I’ve been wanting to do more writing and finding it tricky to fit it into our wild summer schedule, so my awesome therapist and life guru recommended that I try a new app called Otter to capture thoughts and ideas. You record your thoughts and it creates a transcript for you. The first part of this blog was the result of my first trial run. I was so thrilled with my efficiency. Then some magic happened. Part 1…
I got so annoyed with my kid this morning. I hoped he didn’t notice because the mornings are a flurry of activity in his body and his brain. It’s a lot for all of us to process each morning. Today, despite the fact that this is part of our everyday routine, I snapped at my child. He was discombobulated. I was in a rush to get two kids signed in at two different camps, only to get to work late…again. Summer schedule is hard. It’s full of transitions and time constraints, and those are a recipe for trouble on the homefront.
Despite all that, we managed to get in the car. I got kid 1 signed in at camp 1 while kid 2 waited patiently for me. As I hustled back into the car, I turned on some music. As my nervous system began to calm down, I thought to reach my hand back as I was driving and set it in his lap, which is something I commonly do when we’re both regulated. He’ll usually take my hand and hold it. (He’s eight now so that feels like such a gift, and I’m bracing for the day he brushes it away.) He held my hand and we drove the rest of the way listening to the radio.
When we hopped out of the car to hurry inside, he was back to his happy, high-energy self. He signed himself in, and as I exited the building I peeked into the viewing window for a few moments, doing the stealthy mom-of-neurodivergent-kids scan that I often do. Was he along the perimeter of the court, struggling to join the group? Did he show up overly energetic and disruptive? Thankfully, I found him happily shooting baskets on his own, enjoying the ease into the day, the chance to be himself and go at his own pace.
I released a big sigh of relief thinking what a gift it is for him to just be okay — in this setting, without a ton of friends, without his brother who’s familiar, without us. He was out there being himself and having a good time, doing just fine. I can’t fully explain the relief in that moment — the extreme gratitude — because we have had so many summers and so many camps over the years when that has not been the case. We would have given anything for “just fine” a few short years ago. (Heck, even a few short months ago.) To have had not-the-best morning and to have recovered and to have still had a smooth drop-off felt like an actual miracle. A moment to be celebrated.
So I celebrated by recording this moment on that shiny new app during the short drive to my office. Joy! Efficiency! Gratitude! Could it get any better?!
That was supposed to be the end of the story. Part 2…
As I pulled into my usual work parking spot, I saved the recording, shoved my phone into my oversized bag as I looked at the clock, and thought not bad! I snatched the bag from the passenger seat into my lap as a swung the driver’s side door open and caught sight of it…the kid’s backpack, still in the backseat — lunch, snacks, water bottle, the whole shebang. Shit. Shit, shit, SHIT!
So back I went.
Chastising myself all the way — How did I miss that? I should have looked! I know better! Now I’m even later! Ugh. Grr!
As I burst back through the gym door, my heart sunk. My boy was slumped into the bleachers on the perimeter of the court looking so sad. He met me at half court, head hanging low, and buried his head into my belly. I hugged him to me, kissed his head, and scooched him over to the nearest bench alongside the court as he melted his head into my lap.
My imagination took me on a hundred journeys in those moments. He got in trouble. He melted down. He was asked to sit out because he lost control. He’s booted from camp. Why does this always happen to us? I don’t have time for this!
And then he looked up at me and sadly whispered “I forgot my backpack.”
And thank the heavens, I teleported back from all my journeys quickly enough to say “It’s ok. I have it right here. We both forgot to look in the back seat, and it’s here now. You’re ok. We’re ok. Was there anything else?”
Nope, just the backpack. “You ready to rejoin the group?” He gave me one last hug and a nod, grabbed the backpack, and quickly dropped it into the bleachers as he ran to join his coach.
So ya, it’s me. I’m the problem. But also…ya, it’s me. I’m the solution. When I’m ok, he’s ok. Turns out, that was the real story.
