Fifteen.15.FIFTEEN!
You know that thing where you type or say a word and then you read or repeat it so much that it no longer seems like a word? I'm experiencing that phenomena with the word fifteen. It isn't rolling off my tongue as easy as I envisioned it would, well, fifteen years ago, when I gave birth to Miles.
Today he has been breathing the same air as me for fifteen years. He stands at just four feet, 10 inches tall and 94 pounds. He may gain or lose weight, but he will not get any taller. I know this because a hand x-ray told me he was fully pubertal two years ago. His brain mistakenly turned on puberty when he was seven or eight. This was a strange blessing in disguise given his aggressive episodes, but despite his small stature, he can still find the strength of a six foot tall strongman when in the throes of flight or fight mania. We have shaved his face since he was 12. We have dealt with pubic hair, acne and greasy hair for many years before that. Brooks has had a crash course in all these elements well before we suspected he would and is hyper aware of any new signs of puberty that he may (or may not) be experimenting. Life is surely strange sometimes.
When I was 15 I got my learner's permit. I played competitive tennis and recreational softball. I was on the drill team. I loved going to the mall with my friends. I attended my first high school party that subsequently got disbanded by Dallas' finest who were out searching for a neighborhood robber with searchlights from a helicopter. (and instead just tracked a bunch of petrified children running away through a nearby field) I kissed a boy named Shane at that party. I was testing the boundaries of teenagedom while trying to still somewhat be the little girl that my parents expected me to be and I probably actually really wanted to be deep inside. I experimented with new hair colors and makeup. I loved Broadway and INXS and my dog and my friends. I took my first sip of vodka with my friend Jenny and we scared ourselves silly with the 86 proof label. I'm not saying any of these things were good or right, but they were rites of passage and I was lucky to experience them. My boy won't do any of these things and that is weirdly hard. It for sure isn't that I expect any of my children to follow the same developmental path I have. In fact, quite the opposite. But to know that he literally, physically, mentally CANNOT have any of those experiences, is pretty damned heavy.
We spent the day telling him 'happy birthday, we love you' every chance we got as he sat in his bed watching the new dvd's we gave him. That's another strange thing about having a child who can't talk---you don't really know what he likes and doesn't like, so each holiday stirs up some really icky feelings within you as you try your best to pick out gifts you know he likely won't respond to. Each birthday and Christmas I begin to conjure up motherly guilt weeks beforehand as I try to pretend to be inside his brain and consider what it is he may or may not desire to receive. And you wrap them even though you know you, your husband or your younger son will likely be the ones unwrapping them instead of Miles; although you hope upon hope that perhaps he'll try to rip the paper off of just one. I consider holidays like these a success if he shows interest in one thing.
This year it was 'Shrek the Musical.' His affinity for the Shrek movies is not lost on me. Just as he has been enamored by the underdog Charlie Brown, I suspect he sees a little of himself in Shrek the ogre. God, I hope he doesn't believe he is hideous. God, I hope he doesn't believe he is unlovable. God, I hope he finds his Fiona and Donkey one day. But I am also a realist...
We took a family boat ride together that spanned at least two hours. Our spotify playlist ranged from Nirvana's MTV unplugged to Don Mclean's 'Vincent' to David Bowie's 'Starman' to Simon & Garfunkel's 'The Only Living Boy in New York.' Nature's lightshow was in full effect above us as we swayed with the waves on our pontoon boat under the stars. Everyone saw shooting stars but me. I'm not sure why. Maybe my heart wasn't open to seeing them tonight. But despite that, we 'oohed and ahhed' at the sky, and I told Miles that every one of those shooting stars was for him---and I believe that.
Happy birthday to the most beautiful fifteen year old I know. I love you, Miles. I love you. I am sorry.
