On the refrigerator a word stood out. TOY. Yes, a red plastic Tee, a yellow O and a green Y. From beneath a shock of red hair, bright blue-green eyes gleamed, and there was a spring of thornylocust tree bush with sticky blossom above one ear. In his hand, a flimsy toy catalog, shoved directly into my face. He pointed.
THAT one? I asked.
Lotta money, kiddo-thirty dollars plus.
Awwww. Got money, honey? I teased.
From all corners of the house came scruffling and clunking and sneakershoes pounding the floor. Then he reappeared. In hand and dumping RIGHT NOW on the floor several stashes-all coin.
Twenty six dollars worth. Go figure.
I thought that I would faithfully write about the journey in raising my son. The more I wrote, the more solid I became in my convictions to organize this brain that wasn't mine, to train into it some alien pliable form that was not going to stay on track anyway, and otherwise teach what seemed unteachable. Daily writing brought too much verbal thinking into my own visually-oriented mind to allow me to grasp the world in which my son immersed himself. And so...I embraced my own scattered nature, my own visual and spatial world, and became a part of his world. We were much happier -not that the road was smooth- when I invited my son into our world, slowly enticing him into space, a tentative shared space, between his universe and ours. I hope to share insights from the past, present, and future as I continue to ease the transition of this young man into an adult world. The only proven method I use is ages old -- I honor who he is and help him find people and places who do the same... square pegs fit nicely into soft putty that molds around them...and the push into plasticity is gentle.