The Brink

He stands on the edge of manhood, no longer a child, not yet a man, but when he lays sleeping beside me in the big bed he is once more my baby. At twelve going on thirteen he is really a little old to be climbing into my bed, yet how do you refuse in the wee hours of the morning as he stands softly crying in fear after a bad nightmare? His mind never stops. The good nights are when the endlessly working brain conjurs up images of magic and joy, heroes and fun. The bad nights are terrifying as that boundless imagination produces unheard of terrors. But when he lays sleeping, his nose snuggled into my neck as it has since he was tiny, the trackmarks of his tears and the look of unbridled fear vanish. And he sleeps the sleep of the pure of heart.

Awake he looks like a teenager. Asleep he still retains the innocence of a little boy. It is in these dark hours of the night that I often allow myself to look deeper. I question how much of who he is and his behaviours tie into the Asperger Syndrome, and what portion is that of any pre-teen hitting the puberty era? He is my first born, and so I have no precident to follow, no level to compare. It is in the dim light before dawn that I worry, and wonder about the future, his future, and the battles we may face tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after...

But then he'll stir, and half asleep he'll murmer contentedly "I love you Mum." And I know we will get through whatever the new day brings. There is no choice.