cherished.

As a writer, I never know when something is going to move me to write. But I always heed the call the moment it does. The notepad in my phone is my scratchpad, a journal with ideas, half written stories, topics I want to write about, sentences or phrases that come to my mind, 3am thoughts strung together in the beginnings of a blog post. Some make the cut, and become an article somewhere, or an entry here. And some end up sitting idle to pick back up at a later date, to build upon, massage, or for reflection. Like this one. I discovered this last week. Something that I “put pen to paper to" about fifteen years ago. I have previously written about life with Canyon, and his (our) struggles growing up with brain-based disorders, but this is a raw depiction of what our life was like when he was seven years old…

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Too often than not, parents don't want to talk about their special needs kids. They don't want their kids to be different. But you know what? My kid IS different. And this is HONESTY about living with a kid with ADHD, Oppositional Defiance Disorder, Anxiety/Nervous Disorder, an Auditory Processing Disorder. and a Sleep Disorder.

My son is, on a regular basis, extreme, trying, exasperating, and sometimes aggravating. Why lie? He is.

He’s loud, intense, and constantly moving. He’s like a tornado that makes noise. He’s up in your business. He’s right against your body. He is touchy feely. He does not know personal space. Boundaries aren’t his thing, and he doesn’t always know when to quit. Everything is not now, it’s RIGHT NOW. He sleeps terribly. He is up three-four times a night. He has night terrors that wake the house. He pushes buttons. He questions authority. He questions everything and he asks a million questions, all the time, about everything. He thinks the same advantages apply to him as do adults, and none of the rules. He has triggers and “set-offs” that he doesn’t always see coming. The typical childhood fun activity of Halloween wreaks havoc in his little brain- the masses of people, the costumes, the chaos… it creates defiant, complex, messy, destructive anxiety.

He’s playing too hard, too long, too loud. And I find myself saying “Canyon, please stop!” ALL. DAY. LONG.

It’s a strange moment when you realize you have a kid that irritates people. It’s a piercing reality when you see the look in people’s eyes, saying “This boy, he’s too much.” And you see that The Excessively Uptight pretty much can’t stand being in the presence of your son. Sometimes, they’re mean to him, and you want to break their faces with blunt objects and grab your boy and fold him up back into your belly, where the assholes don’t exist and he’s safe.

But you know what’s the most amazing feeling in the world? When you realize you don’t give a shit what they think, and you’re set free from the insane notion that your kids should all fit perfectly all the time into society’s idea of a “well-behaved” "normal" child.

I have a boy who doesn’t fit. He doesn’t fit in school. He lifts his classmates up-literally-in bear hugs, and tinkers with their ears. He’s bossy. He is impulsive. He says inappropriate things. He lacks a filter system. He’s LOUD. He talks excessively. He interrupts the teachers. He butts in. He randomly yells out song lyrics. He’s seven years old and struggles reading. He gets “below basic” marks in every area on his report card. He can’t sit still. Ever. He can’t concentrate. Ever. He can’t wait his turn. Ever. He struggles keeping friends.

And you know what? I don’t care. And I’ll tell you why:

The other day he was playing with 9 cubes and he all the sudden said “If I had four groups of these cubes I’d have 36.” And I asked him “Dude, Canyon, how’d you know that?” and he said “I don’t know. I just saw it in my head.”

And he’s fascinated with sports and tools and mechanical devices (he’ll stare at a gadget forever, until he can explain how it works). He can take things apart and put them back together. He welds in the bathroom. He can hit a baseball 5 out 5 times. He is curious about life. He is curious about everything. He wants to understand how everything works. He can empathize. He asks the disabled employee at the movie theater why he doesn't have legs, and what it's like not to have legs, and then says, “It’s ok if you don’t have legs, I have splinters in my brain.”

And you know what else doesn’t fit in any mold? The pure, raw, whole, immense love I have for him.

His heart is so big it’s like a constantly exploding star. He squeezes and hugs and kisses the ones he loves so hard like he is trying to physically get what’s in his heart out. When he gets upset he looks at me and screams, “Mommy, I LOVE YOU!!” as if that’s what’s going to fix it…  But that’s where his strength comes from- from loving others, and hearing that they love him back.

And I do. Man, do I ever.

I love him so much my heart breaks sometimes just looking at him, my little son, because I can’t believe I could cherish anything as much as I do that little boy.

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Fifteen years later, nothing has changed. Only now, he’s found his place in this world. Only now, he’s found his people. And they accept him for everything he isn’t, and for all the things he is. Only now, he’s channeled his “splintered” brain into a technical career he loves. Only now, he’s thriving. He still loves and gives his love without limits, without hesitation. And he is loved back a billion-trillion fold.