Water Tag

Today is my son's 14th birthday. It's been a good day, what with the occasion coinciding with Thanksgiving and all. But yesterday gave me yet another window into Noah's amazing, sometimes heartbreaking world. It started with the water cooler.

You see, Noah is in the habit of making himself hot chocolate on nearly a daily basis. And yesterday, the water cooler was out of water. So Noah trudged to the basement and brought up a big water bottle (it must weigh nearly half of what he does!) but I couldn't change the bottle for him, because it was too heavy for me to lift and turn over. Noah asked if daddy could do it, but I explained that daddy was resting. And then the problems started.

Noah became distraught. It's nearly impossible to describe, other than to suggest that you imagine how a child might feel if his favorite pet just died. Tears welled up in Noah's gigantic, confused brown eyes. He just couldn't understand or accept what it meant not to have his hot chocolate from the cooler, right then. This is not about a spoiled child throwing a tantrum; this is about a child with a significant brain disorder whose life is substantially based on nearly immutable routines. Noah makes hot chocolate with water from the cooler and therefore the cooler is not supposed to be empty when it's time for him to prepare his drink. Or if it is empty, it has to be refilled. Immediately.

I tried to mollify Noah by telling him that I'd boil water for him on the stove, but that clearly struck him as unacceptable. Nevertheless, I turned the fire under the kettle up to raging inferno, hoping the water would boil instantaneously, and Noah's tear-filled face would revert to one of happiness and contentment. Noah did calm down, but not before my nerves were a bit frayed, and my voice rose a little--against my own desires--in abject frustration.

Just a little while later, I reminded Noah that his birthday was coming up, and I asked him what he wanted from Sam. I know that Noah doesn't crave things, so I wasn't surprised that when I suggested some possible "gifts," Noah chose "playing wrestlemania." "Anything else you want from Sam?" I asked. "To play tag."

And thus my son once again took me on that whiplash journey from inconsolable over what seems so basic, yet so hard for him to understand, to giving me such pride in his innate awareness of and desire for connection with those he loves.