My "Different" child

This short story reminds me of my ADHD child. I hope someone gets some hope/ encouragement from it.

My Son the Warrior

Taken from “The Rest of Us” by Jacquelyn Mitchard

“Until now, we took a fair amount of pride in the fact that we could raise boys we described as sturdy but gently. Boys who could throw straight but also liked to cuddle, and who made guns from their breakfast toast only occasionally, not every day.

Then along out of babyhood came our youngest son, now rounding the curve toward age three, and we have to admit we think this boy is an alien life form.

Martin, who has been raised exactly like his brothers have been raised, sleeps with a plastic scimitar tucked into the band of his training pants. He sidles up to the couch evenings, and with a beseeching look in his almond-shaped brown eyes, says, “Mommy, may you fight me please?” He often carries two swords (spoons will do in a pinch) for this purpose. And so I sit, desultorily whacking away in a moral combat with my toddler, who crows when he lands a direct hit, “You’re dead now, Mommy. Please fall over.”

I know that Martin loves me—after all, he must depend on me to give him food since he is too short to reach the cabinet handles. But when I hear him sing his version of his favorite song, “Ol’ McDonald had no mommy, ee-ay-ee-ay-oh….” I am unsettles. And recently, he performed a Freudian maneuver that was an even greater source of consternation.

We have a children’s wooden crèche next to our Christmas tree, and we had versions of making it work in the style that French families do—you know: The Three Kings (called the “Wise Guys” by our sons) start out a few feet away from the manager and move a little closer every day throughout Advent.

Martin took an interest in the crèche this year, and I noticed immediately that every night at bedtime, Baby Jesus was on the roof of the stable.

“Why is he up there, Marty?” I asked.

“He is hiding from his mommy,” Martin explained with his customary intensity. “She always tells him no, don’t do that. He can’t stand her.”

This, I thought, is an angry young man. And I get further evidence all the time that Martin is the toughest cookie in our jar.

The other night, I was helping him put on his pajamas—an indignity he no longer suffers gladly. Taking pity on his restless cried, I soothed him, “There, there. You’re Mom’s little puppy….”

“No!” he cried. “I’m ling of the wild frontier.”

I suppose it is difficult to be king of the wild frontier and still have someone count out the carrots on your plate. Martin’s nature brings home to me again and again the truth that our sons and daughters are only passing through. At first, they are of you, born to come to your arms. Rapidly, they are with you, pausing only long enough for you to dab a few hurried strokes of paint on the canvas they are becoming—they are on their way to belonging to themselves, and then to the world. If we are lucky, they always will consider our home their harbor, but they are headed out to the open sea, almost from the first.

I sit tonight, looking at Mother Mary, her head softly bowed as she waits inside the stable for her little son to get over his fit of pique and come down from the roof. And I think of thousands of years of mothers of growing children who bowed their heads and hoped for the best, as they wondered, What child is this?”