B9. not folic acid.

                                          

I've said before that the letter B is one that carries a significance in my life. Baylor, Baker, baking, #boymom... those are letter-b-for-big ones. 

The letter B that's currently highlighted in all the neon colors, though, is the one that belongs to my boy, Bonham.

                                     

If you've met him, or even seen my pics on the socials, you know that he's pretty dang cute, for one thing. He's quirky, weird, crazy smart, and oh-so-silly. Y'all, he's a gem- one hundred percent, without a doubt. A gem.

                                         

And if you know me, you know all the things- both wonderful and challenging - that come along with sharing space and life with this B. 

I wrote part of this entry as I sat in his "shrink's" office a couple weeks ago. Technically I guess it's not a shrink- they're not doctors, and their goal isn't to decrease his cranial proportions. Perhaps we can look at "shrinking" some of his anxiety? We'll see. 

That day, I sat in the lobby, amid the clickety clackety of the receptionist's computer keys, spa/relaxation music designed to discourage blood pressure spikes perhaps, and the occasional thump of what sounds like a basketball whacking the wall just behind said receptionist's seat. In between ball-thumps were peals of beautiful giggles... my Bonham, playing away under the trained, kind, and oh-so-observant eyes of his therapist. What feels like throwing, drawing, puzzle-ing and sandbox-ing to B are windows into his sweet psyche; the space in which he is free to be his genuine, true self is a safe one, free of judgment. To the trained eyes, the ones we're trusting and in whose wisdom we are placing significant reliance, his play sends messages.

I don't get to know what each of the messages is saying, which feels a little strange. As his mom, I feel some sort of justification for being privy to everything that's going on in his wee body- physically and emotionally. He's mine, I rationalize. He's not his own yet, and I'm the only one who has answers for all of his booboos, whether they're giant or tiny.  

Being B's mom is so, so hard. It’s such a gift, and he is a genuine blessing in all the ways, for sure. He's such an incredible kid. So bright, so funny, really excellent at puns and an exquisite artist, loves to help others. He feels and cares big, and he hurts big. And he really, really worries big. 

Just as it’s exhausting for a person immersed in a culture that doesn’t speak his/ her primary language - he/ she spends so much of their brain energy trying to pay attention, to remember language nuances, to determine which rules go with which vocabulary or verb tenses, etc. - Bonham uses so much of his brain space to function socially and emotionally in his world; social nuances aren’t his first language. He exhausts himself- and by default, his family, rather unintentionally of course- putting rules together, reading facial features, performing non-preferred tasks (usually at non-preferred times), navigating changes in routine, slogging through the anxiety he experiences day to day engaging in what we would consider the mundane, but that could possibly debilitate him. He is tired. So is his mama. We’re both so, so tired. 

                                        

There's not one single weekday- not one - that goes by wherein I'm not dreading a phone call from school, wondering what the tantrum or hypersensitive response du jour might be. What ailment with which he might have been stricken, what crisis has found him, what situation he couldn’t just walk through like a “normal” human. In those moments, I’ve got to sift through the “what’s ‘just a boy’ and what’s ‘neuro divergence’ “ to try to determine the need for explanation (which always sounds like I’m making excuses) or the need for consequence; often, I’m finding, there’s the need for both. And how do I explain without excusing- to him and to others?