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.

How They Grow...

He is twelve. As of last week, he is twelve. My first born, child of my soul, my Aspie son, is no longer a little boy, he is a young man. I watch, dazzled by his beautiful heart and incredible mind; I sit and listen, inspired by his other worldy imagination, moved by his compassion. I laugh out loud, huge deep gurgles from deep in my belly, as he unleashes his wit and profoundly dry sense of humour at the most unexpected times. My son, my child, my love, my lifeblood. My boy.

His is an old soul, it became obvious to all within weeks of his birth. The gorgeous amber eyes seemed to bore deep past the outer image into the very core of your soul.

Boy 1 six weeks of age

And as he has grown so too his ability to put thoughts into words blossomed.

Boy 1 - 15 months

His forthright honesty has affected the most toughened of characters. At karate the then six year old walked up to his instructor at the completion of a class. He laid the palm of his hand gently on her heart, gazed intensely into her eyes and told her "You have one of the most beautiful souls, you are so beautiful on the inside you make my heart happy..." This slightly plump, average in appearance, outwardly stern woman was reduced to tears. She turned to us, all rather gobsmacked by his words, tracks running down her cheeks, barely able to speak. She managed to dazedly stammer out "I have never had such a heartfelt, touching compliment. Your son is an amazing young man" before walking away, wiping the wetness from her face.

 Boy 1 aged 5 years old

I pray he keeps this purity, this honesty and the wonderful ability to see even the deepest, most truly buried goodness in people. I know he still has it now, on the cusp of teenagerhood.

My son, no longer a child, standing poised on the threshold of becoming a young man. One day I am going to tell his story, shout it to the world, write his tale for all to behold. It will not be a story of miraculous cures, of crystals and dogs, of horses and travels. It will be the story of a little boy with a strong heart, and the ability to inspire all who cross his path. The journey of a boy overcoming a dark prognosis, fighting his personal battles with the courage of a warrior, wanting only to become the best he can be.

I love you son, to quote our favourite story:

"I love you forever,

I like you for always,

As long as I'm living my baby you'll be."

Robert Munsch 2003 Love You Forever

Lurgy attack, but still bouncing!

Imagination gallops; judgement merely walks.

It has hit, I officially have the dreaded lurgy, or flu as most would call it. But even with feeling exceptionally ill, I still have an underlying emotion of happiness and emotional well-being. The actions of others are no longer clouding my life - I have finally learnt to let things go. Is this a permanent state of mind? I truly have no idea, I certainly hope so.

I am not sure of the reason, it may have been the constant comments by a friend about only being able to control our actions not the actions of others. It could have been the reassurances by many that I have not done wrong, or it could be that I have finally accepted that I cannot fix the jealousy or possessiveness of an unhinged mind, or bear the guilt felt by others. Maybe it is down to being ill and waking up with fevers at ungodly hours allowing me to mull over my own words and deeds and to resolve any self-doubt or recrimination. Whatever it is, I feel unshackled and free, and most of all happy.

And when I see those who scowl, or glare at me with hatred, I just smile and say hello.