'His days are littered with directives: 'Miles, get out your pencil; Miles, finish your work; Miles, eyes up here.' He hears a barrage of instructions, day in & day out. Not only at school. His father and I also are telling, warning, scolding & cajoling.'
He sits at the dining room table. There are crumbs under his chair, and I’m itching to vacuum them up. His plate, streaked with ketchup and half a hamburger bun, sits next to his elbow. One false move and it’ll crash to the floor. He doesn’t notice me standing, watching him from the kitchen door, and somehow I stop myself from swooping in with my usual fervor. The early evening light slants across the wall behind him. It lights up his hair.
As I stand there, a sponge in one hand, I take a breath and make myself still, too. In his profile, I see the phantom curve of the baby cheeks he once had, I see the soft blond hair that used to tickle my chin when he crawled over and climbed into my lap. We were so much younger then. When he was a baby, I wrote in my journal: “Miles, you are the uncurling of a new green tendril, a tiny vine, delicate and strong. You are completely unique.
It’s hard for Miles. His impulsivity drives him to chatter in class, his legs to move like a sewing machine, and his hands to flicker across the surface of his desk. He’s months away from ninth grade now, and his teachers have lost all patience. His classmates find him distracting. Time is up, the school counselor has told him — grades must be made and this behavior will get you sent out of class.
We all unfold. Given the right support, we all lift our faces to the sun and grow into ourselves — there’s no need for control. Miles has been unfolding before me for 14 years. He’s going to find his way. I need to stop my buzzing and let him embrace the quiet in his mind that will, ultimately, lead him into the life he’s supposed to live.After all, he can’t fall through the cracks if I stay with him, if I continue to be the trellis that supports his growth in whatever direction he goes.
He looks up just then, and sighs over his math homework. “I’m working on it, Mom.” I nod and cross the room to where he is. I lean down and kiss the top of his head. He lets me. It’s warm, and underneath the Old Spice he’s taken to splashing on every morning, I can smell his baby smell. He’s my boy, and he’s beautiful. He’s my boy, and it’s my job to breathe, to help him relax into the calm that comes so rarely. “It’s OK, Miles,” I answer. “Take your time.
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