I can’t remember when I stopped comparing, but it’s a strange non-activity my brain acknowledges, then quickly gives up on.
We watched a movie the other night that had a probably-not-even-one-year-old in it, walking around, standing on his own, interacting. My husband said, “that looks so weird to me” and I concurred. The relaxed ease with which this very young little being was moving about just looked… surreal.
I would describe my son as “kinetic” – he has a belly of energy that is constantly flowing through and out of him, fuelled by a desire for feeling and movement. Therapists would call him a “sensory seeker“. He rocks in his highchair, he arches his back over and over while on the floor, he jump jump jump jumps on his feet, he sways on his hands and knees… he is always moving. Except for when he’s not. Then he is as still as a tree, caught or immersed in a moment of… I could only guess. Shadows and light? Emptiness? Reliving something that happened? Patterns? The feeling of everything?
During these kind of spaced out moments hubs and I sometimes joke, “A, are you doing your math equations?” For it’s enjoyable to wonder about all that could be going on and less pleasant to think about how little might be.
I consider myself pretty in-tune to most things and people, and of course my son trumps most things and most people, so I feel pretty in-tune to him. However, he is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I feel his intelligence is vast, but I know, in addition to being his mother, that I am an idealist. I let myself consider he may seriously lack comprehension for things, but it jars, doesn’t seem quite right. The sly smile he gives me when I ask him to do something (that in turn he does not do), or his attention to detail in the choosing of toys (he prefers holding two things that match), or the way he sits and thinks on something so intensely (for… ages). Who knows though.
Hubs got me the book “The Spark” for Christmas. I’d been eyeing it for awhile but the e-book has been loaned out for months from our library. I started it today. It’s a memoir of a mother who’s son has autism and, turns out, is a genius, a math/science prodigy. I’ll be honest and admit that I was hoping the first chapter describing her genius-toddler would align with some of the things I’m seeing in A, but not so. Yes, her kid dug shadows and plaid as well, but he also recited Japanese cartoons and learned the alphabet at 14 months or whatever. So much for comparison there too, but I’ll read on!
Suppose all of those spaced out times really are… spaces. Can I/someone/something fill them? Will they hold anything profound? Or are they abysses of beautiful peacefulness better left undisturbed?
If my son does not win the lottery of genius-ness, I will not be surprised – winning the lottery is tough. But I think I will always wonder what he’s wondering and someday when he tells me, I will be endlessly amazed.