Birthdays Were The Worst Days

I was angry with my child on his birthday. The night before I waxed poetic about his three beautiful years of life, although the past three months have been punctuated with extreme tantrums and violent outbursts often aimed at me. My consolation is that it could be worse. This is the meditation that I internally harmonize on as I’m getting the shit slapped out of me by my baby boy. And he’s ruthless with it, too. But, nevertheless, it could be worse. Olu’s brand of autism smiles and laughs and makes eye contact and runs in circles with his siblings. The stimming behaviors make a rare appearance and most of his frustration seems to be the result of not being able to communicate his needs.

Each morning I wake up with new hope and passion, and meet defeats of some sort throughout the day. I’ve learned to cook and shoo away his little body when he bites me on the back of the thigh. I’ve learned to silence his cries when he’s overwhelmed by his sister and brother’s noisy routine. I split myself in three parts, though never equal at any time, I damn sure try. We are a family and this is our journey and I am incorporating my older babes while still trying to honor their autonomy as babies in their own right. They need Mommy. Yet, they’ve learned to set aside their needs when Olu has an emergent circumstance. Unless they have completely had it, for the most part, they’re little soldiers. I hate it. I want to have time for each of them, I don’t want to tell Djimon to wait to talk about his homework because Olu is having a meltdown. But here we are.

Yesterday, I wanted to celebrate. I opened my eyes and within seconds I was met with a slap to my nose. Flat hand, limp, yet strong. Even still I smiled and sang, “Happy Birthday” to my baby boy. Olu didn’t acknowledge the gesture. The day continued as a tug and pull of myself and my family wanting to honor Olu’s special day and Olu’s unawareness and disinterest in anything pleasurable. Maybe he wanted to feel joy but didn’t know how to achieve it. I can relate. In deep, dark moments of depression I can be staring at the sun with no awareness of light. But, I tried anyways. Because that’s what we do. We celebrate life, all of our lives and I refused to make adjustments because of autism. Maybe I was wrong. I don’t know. It’s all so new.

We went to dinner. I decided that we would get out of the house and ride in the car to a restaurant because car rides are Olu’s favorite things. He’s a “Go-Go Baby” as my grandma calls him. So, as expected he was happy to get out and ride with his family, but the joy and exuberance that I sought just. Wasn’t. There. He had no awareness of the occasion and so he didn’t realize that by having a bad day he was shitting all over Mommy’s plans. My plans to celebrate him, to rejoice in his birth.

That is what he has done at every turn. He has challenged my thoughts and ideas about occasions and celebrations. He has taught me how to be flexible, how to be selfless, how to truly let my needs go and find joy in the definition of another. I’m still fighting. Cussing. Fussing, learning and growing, but we’re getting there. Through many years, nervous breakdowns, and meltdowns; we are getting there.

Birthrights…

We all carry our parents trauma…the loneliness our fathers felt when abandoned by their own, the rejection our grandmother’s handed down to our mothers…that old school shit…you’re too dark, too light, good hair…nappy hair…whatever, all of it. My mother and I, we have walked through black nights together, screaming on opposite ends of the sky, rushing to one another when the cold became bone chilling…clinging to one another for healing. We have searched with courage and humility. Flawed and fucked up, beautiful and generous in spirit. I don’t care if every other relationship passes me by, it’s Mommy and me. I see her pain, and honor her truth…I am her, she is me…this bond is heavy and sagging sometimes, but finally I am carving out my own freedom from my mother’s bondage. She always tells me that she is only a few generations away from slavery, and the stains are there, permanently on her soul, on mine, passed down. We are conscious of our freedom, we are unlike the young white women who court bohemianism and dress the part with total abandon and ownership. We strip our hair of chemicals and wax poetic about the notion of self love and discovery. We know that the truth is sometimes a burden on the spirit, yet we stalk it, hoping to gain ownership of ourselves.  I am my mother, light skinned with the “good hair ” that she always coveted, honey dripping from my throat, piercing eyes, biting tongue, lovely heart, rich soul. I am my mother and I will continue to rise in love despite defeat , and sing of light, despite dark, because I am a WOMAN.

Sweetest Olu of The Universe

You were a groove in my heart, joy, lightness, and your beauty lit me up from the inside out. I was terrified when I got word of your impending arrival. Three under three? How crazy fertile were your father and I? We looked at each other and I was pregnant. Well, maybe we did a little more than just looking.  But, I digress. Baby boy, you rocked us, but in the sweetest way. You were my most painful, but quickest, and most definitely my funniest labor. We had our whole team roaring with laughter and love. That’s the way it’s been with you, Olu. Just laughter and love. You’ve got your Daddy’s smile, his unforgettable signature. I watched the video of your birth the other day. I watched you come through my birth canal into this world. I could feel my panic when I asked the doctor why you weren’t crying. “Is he okay?” I asked repeatedly. But, you just laid there. They put you at my breast and you gazed up at me never releasing a single cry. They took you from me and you wailed. We all cheered with excitement. Relief settled all over me because, you know, you were good. You hollered all night long and I wanted to literally KILL your father because he slept soundly beside me while I struggled to rest and care for you. I was fucking tired. Like, Olu, your labor was sooooo painful. Anyways, now you’re two years old and you haven’t decided to speak yet. Everyone’s all speech delay, possible autism spectrum, and I’m working to sort out all of the jargon and to see you, my Love. To feel your truth and honor your experience. You are so brilliant, and loving. You give the sweetest hugs and the most tender lingering kisses and I just want to drown out all of the medical shit and just let you be. But, everyone’s all, early intervention and lalalalalalalaaaaaaa. I’m an educated woman, self educated, but, your Daddy, I mean, medicine is his whole life. So, somewhere between Mommy’s soul and spirit and Daddy’s medical and academic expertise you exist and you thrive and you will continue to thrive. It’s hard to silence the sirens in my head when I hear shit like, 25% speech delay and possible social delays. Because, I see you. I believe that your voice is there. It’s coming. You deserve the right to your own journey and your own truth, and I don’t want to force you outside of your comfort zone. Today, you are my beautiful, twenty-six month old Olu. You love blocks, your brother and sister, bananas, jumping on the bed, dancing, and toy vehicles. Whatever may come, we will rise and we will thrive and we will love you.