Little Brother has been performing, for weeks, a song he’s learned at preschool (fun fact: according to him, the literal translation of “preschool” is “the place where you throw dirt”). Due to LB’s…shall we say, reinterpretation of many words, I’m not sure if these are the exact lyrics, but the song goes something like this:
In upsy-down town, the sky is in the sea
The rabbit’s in the nest where the bird should be
The rain is going up instead of falling down
Down in upsy-down town.
There’s a chocolate cake as white as snow
And the more you eat it the bigger it grows
You walk up on your nose, you stand up on your toes
Down in upsy-down town.
Most days I feel like I live in upsy-down town.
Navigating life alongside a kid with superpowers/special needs has been described many ways: as Holland replacing Italy, as a marathon rather than a sprint. For me, one of the defining features of it (besides getting tagged on Facebook ad nauseum when people could have just sent me the damn link in a private email thanks) has been the steps forward, steps back, steps forward pattern that, only years in, is realised to be a dance. The movements start out erratic and unpredictable at first, uncertainty reigning, and then time goes on to reveal a rhythm not initially noticed, a pattern among the pattern-less seeming days, and beauty sets in. Brutal, terrific beauty.
Example: I can no longer count on Mondays to be awful.
Last year, The Kid’s teacher was simply wonderful. On report cards she discussed his weaknesses, praised his strengths, and told us (and others) what a gift he was to the class. She credited him with bonding the kids together. I accepted the compliment on his behalf and basked in its glow.
This year, we haven’t been as lucky. At least, not at first. But as situations have developed and meetings have been called and battles have been fought (I am especially handy in war departments; see my LinkedIn profile), other teachers have been added to the mix and what started with gritted teeth and reports has led to a now-growing list of People Who Know Him and Love Him, like the teacher who stopped me on Monday morning, as I was about to lose it over TK’s distracted focus on his hangnail rather than my instructions to change his reader. She simply said, “He is such a wonderful boy. You know what? He’s going to be such a beautiful adult. He will do so well.” A few minutes later, I spoke with the teacher who was in his class last Friday, who told me how social he is (!), and how much he loves interacting with his friends.
Monday mornings have typically been the locale for birdshit falling from the sky, tearful fights, and regrets to be apologised for later. Now they’re flipped upsy-down.
And there’s the birthday party thing. Long ago, I accepted (so willingly and graciously, I might add, and not with any resentment) that, as other parents began dropping their kids off for these affairs, I’d likely be remaining at the scene for years to come. So far, so true. But whereas in years past, when I’d follow TK around the perimeter of the location and silently plead for him to join the group, now he stays close to me for a few minutes before he either jumps in himself or is led by a mate. This past weekend, the party was at an indoor gym set up with activity stations: rope swings, monkey bars, etc. He lined up with everyone else as I hastily approached one of the helpers, telling her he may need some extra help, and I watched as he took his turn at each station, held by the helper at most and smiling through it. He came up to me afterward, red-faced and sweaty, saying, “I’m so TIRED. I’m really fit though.”
But he does still cover perimeters. Last week we were at LB’s touch rugby practice and TK came up to me beforehand. “I’m going to run twice around the oval,” he announced, and I told him to go for it even as I thought that I’d believe it when I saw it. As he circled one loop, I waved at him. “Want to come back?” I called. “I said TWICE!” he shouted back, covering the not-insignificant distance one more time before returning to me and my thought that we may have a cross-country runner on our hands–this boy who took what felt like forever (seventeen months) to walk.
On that afternoon, and at the birthday party, I thought of all the ground we’ve covered to get here, to this place where our 10 still often looks like others’ 5 (but don’t let that fool you; now he’s often finishing his worksheets first in class without help which is weirdly not a skill that is acknowledged at social and sporting events). To this place where he is forcing the Me I would have been out of the way in service of the creation of a better Me: a Me who can’t rely on being the person who has all her ducks in a row (it’s hard to line them up when one of the ducks doesn’t speak until he’s four); the Me who thought underdogs were just cute until their songs became our anthems; who gets that the track “Popular” from Wicked is satire rather than instruction manual; who would rather stay in the lane with all the Differents rather than be in the one who audition playdates for their kids (yeah that’s a thing). I know now that life can amount to keeping a list of rules–of How to Fit In, of How to Maintain an Image, of How to Not Rock the Boat–that end up amounting to BS and untold wasted years.
I know that it took awhile to get here and mean it, but that I’m okay in Upsy-Down Town. Especially when it has a bakery where I take him every Monday, before that string of therapy visits that could be (and often are) trying and long but also wonderful and ground-breaking, and when he walks up to the counter and orders and hands over the coins like I taught him, the server tells him, “You’re a lucky boy.” And I know that it’s true.