Touch Has A Memory



This cub. An early morning selfie after Logan had joined me in bed (*sigh*)  July, 2014. Texas

When Logan was born, all the nurses were utterly enchanted with him. With a halo of blond hair, ENORMOUS blue eyes framed with a thick fringe of black lashes, and the most flawless kissable lips, he was the perfect, cherubic Victorian angel. One nurse said, “People always say there are no ugly babies, but I’m here to tell you, people lie. But THIS baby is adorable.” The nurse, obviously drugged on the heady power of Logan’s charm, proved at least partially prophetic; Logan WAS adorable, but as time marched on, it would seem he was not so much an adorable human baby, but rather an adorable alien baby. The child, I was certain, was something straight out of The Poltergeist because of his ability to projectile vomit any nourishment across the room...an 80 acre farm, three lanes of traffic, and the entire length of the football stadium at Notre Dame.  Between an ulcer, REALLY BAD REFLUX, and perhaps as some type of penance for when I didn’t stick up for Robin (a beautiful and chubby sixth grader who kids teased by calling her “Robin Red Breast”) during recess, meant that I became a mother to an alien… circle of life and all that (Sorry Robin). The child DID NOT SLEEP unless he was tucked in my arms. He wanted to nurse leisurely about every hour for five minutes. Like a spoiled kitten, he’d lap at the milk then satisfied, shoot it across the room to eat away the paint on the wall like a demon from Ghost Busters.

So Logan (my third son in as many years) slept in my bed, in my arms by my breast so he could snack and throw up on me and I could smell like fermented milk all the days of my life. (I think it did something for my skin though).

Family Movie Night, Logan and Spencer hanging together, Utah, October 2014

 

 BUT, I think because of this early and intense bonding, I became the human my little E.T. sought out for connection. Logan loves routine, and topping the list of the morning routine was to wake up and cuddle with me. Substituting Russ didn’t work (but it was fun to see Russ’ eye twitch in full swing when he tried). A stuffed animal (are you an idiot) didn’t work. Duh! He wanted ME. If I happened to be running an errand or taking the boys to school, there was hell to pay. When I came home, Logan would drag me back to my bed (still holding the sacks of groceries in each hand) so I could climb BACK under the covers and snuggle him in his favorite spot; one cheek resting against my collar bone, his forehead at the perfect kissable angle, his arm draped over my side. We would lay quietly, while I praised him like the proud (alien) cat he was, (He would signal me with his royal nod: You may commence praising now mother). “Oh, how much do I love this boy?” KISS KISS KISS. “Who does mommy love? My Loggy cub!” KISS KISS KISS! And if I was quiet too long Logan would say, “You forgot the one about God.” “In heaven,” I’d begin, “Everybody fought over who would get Logan, but as it turns out I was God’s favorite, because He gave you to me.”

Oh those beautiful mornings when Loggy, still weak with sleep, would rest against me, and in those reverent moments of connection I would find strength to face another day with a STRONG willed toddler who didn’t say “No” if he didn’t want something but “NEVER!!!!!” i.e. "Go put your cup in the sink my love.” “NEEEEVVVVEEERRRR!!!!"

Loggy and Russ flopped on the bed, September 2014, Texas.

 Some rituals are hard wired into the brain, and while logistics have changed, Logan still prefers if I wake him in the morning by climbing into his bed and cuddling him for a few minutes. Now that he’s as tall as me, he has to do some scooting to get into the proper position. He shimmies down the bed a bit so he can rest his head against my heart, I know to turn slightly towards him as he turns slightly towards me so he can fit his limbs against mine like a puzzle piece sliding into place, so we are intertwined. Mostly we lay there silently, me kissing his oh so kissable forehead, but sometimes he’ll say between yawns, “Tell me again," And I will say, “I am God’s favorite daughter, and everyone is jealous because God gave me you.” And he’ll snuggle closer, and I’ll snuggle closer and tell my time ticking, alarming mind screaming at me about all the morning tasks that still need to be checked off before school starts, to shut up. THIS is important.

John Keats the poet wrote that “Touch has a memory.” And I knew exactly what memory I wanted Logan to take with him as he raced out the door for school. 

Yes. I am Logan’s human and as a rule he has always been much easier with touch than Alex, and therefore, easier to reconnect with on a guttural level. Logan will lean into Spencer while they watch a movie on the couch and lay on top of Russ when he flops on the bed, but Alex. Oh! He is rigid. Autism, like formaldehyde seems to have seeped through his foamy bones, leaving him living in a state of functioning rigor mortis. He’s unable to relax the way others relax, to lean against someone and mold yourself to them seeking heat. And while he longs for touch and the comfort of human contact, knowing how to access it is puzzling, then knowing what to do with it once he’s gotten it, disarming. Alex was never a cuddler, from the moment he could hold his head up, he was pushing away from me.

Brother's sleeping under the Christmas tree at Grandma's house: Pure magic. Utah, December 2014

In keeping with tradition, the other night was a particularly hard night that had flowed seamlessly from a particularly hard day with Alex. After the door slamming, sprint up the one-upping ladder of threats we'd raced together, I’d climbed into bed exhausted.  While lying in dark, the palm of my hand pressed against my forehead, I heard Alex turn on the shower, and the sound sparked a memory, and just like that I was transported back to a night several years earlier, eerily similar to the one I had just experienced. The boys had disagreed on what to watch on TV.  The arguing escalated until Alex had grabbed the remote and hurled it into the air, the device exploding against the wall, batteries raining down like bombs while Spencer and Logan dived and rolled for cover like well-trained Army Commandos. At this point in the evening, I was in a word, DONE. Exhaustion had rendered me catatonic. Alex had waited for my reaction, and receiving none, yelled, “Fine! I’m going to bed!” And stormed off, the stairs quaking under the weight of his rage.

Spencer and Logan had come out cautiously, pausing like deer in the headlights, they waited ears perked to see whether he would reappear. It was only when they heard the water running in the tub upstairs that Spencer bent to pick up the remote and Logan climbed back on the couch to finish his show.

Spencer getting in on the cuddling action...I know it doesn't look like it,
but I was actually quite comfortable! December 2014, Texas

I’d put the boys to bed early, they’d read the weariness around my eyes, absorbed  my heavy gait and didn’t argue. Upstairs I’d crawled into bed without brushing my teeth. Russ was off at a meeting, so I 'd laid in the center of the mattress bracing myself for when the solitude splintered, but instead silence settled in the room as heavy as unshed tears. Then, just as I was drifting off, I heard Alex’s tenuous approach. He paused by the side of the bed, hesitant, then climbed in next to me, lowered himself laboriously and sunk into the mattress sighing heavily -like he’d never really rested before. In the dark he pressed his still damp head against mine “I’m sorry” he’d said into my shoulder” “I know.” I whispered back. In the dark he groped for the remote, turned the TV on and flipped between channels, settling on Animal Planet. He cast me a furtive glance, then pulled the striped blanket around us both. I was surprised, our legs touched, until he started to seal himself off from me, tucked himself into a blanket tomb and encased like a mummy he sighed contentedly.  I knew he’d come with the brittle hope of reconciliation and I softened, relented. For a time I just listened to his even breathing, then cautiously I raised a hand to his cheek, and when he didn’t recoil, the contact revived a limp memory, the nights we used to spend reading together when he was a baby. He’d climb into bed each night and settle against me, his little blond head angled towards mine. I remembered breathing in the heady scent of baby shampoo and how one tiny fleeced foot tapped the mattress methodically like a metronome. We’d lie together reading book after book, Alex pointing at the pictures and while biting the nipple of his bottle between his teeth he’d say, “Race car” or “triangle” then turn to look at me, react to my praise, “Yes Alex! That’s right! Such a smart boy! Triangle!” Then he would smile, milk pooling in the pocket of his lips. On this particular night, I remember he’d laid his head against my chest, his eyes widening in surprised when he’d detected the steady beating of my heart. He fell asleep with his head still cradled against me, and even though it was late I never moved him away, I kept him un-deposited, pulled close his comforting frame, kissed his dimpled hands, his downy head.



Alex, ten months old, playing the piano at Grandma's house. Love this kid! Utah 1998

While Animal Planet droned on about dung beetles, I watched as Alex’s unbreakable frame relaxed moment by exhausting moment. He curled toward me, almost in the fetal position and I ran my hands through his damp, unruly hair. And when he finally succumbed to sleep, he was at once emancipated. Uninhibited, he kicked off the binding covers and wrapped his arms around me like one of those monkeys with the Velcro hands, his limbs tangled with mine, limp and supple, his head against my chest in no time, as if the steady beating of my heart was the rhythm he needed to dream. Asleep, he was easy with affection, face to face I searched again for signs he was the same boy I’d read to all those years back, the same one I’d held in the hospital, overcome with the intensity of gratitude I’d felt while I cradled him still attached to me, the nurse hastily wiping his rounded back. In the dark with Alex curved towards me, arms and legs around me, I’d indulged in reprieve as we both got again what we craved; connection, contact, warmth, touch.

 

Alex indulging me in a rare photo with him. September 2014, Texas

And this is what I was remembering as I laid in bed a few nights ago, I’d thought back to that night six years earlier and remembered how when Russ got home I’d had him move Alex back to his bed. I’d thought our moment of connection was enough, I thought I needed space, a break, solitude. I didn’t comprehend then the umbilical need for reciprocal connection in our relationship as mother and son.  But I’ve since learned connection, however sporadic, must be cherished, curled around, protected with bubble wrap. I cannot risk a chink in the armor of hope I wear for my son. I need those soothing moments of touch, of callow communication, to help me remember who he is at his core; the boy I once held in the rawest of forms. Unlike his brothers who demand and accept love unabashedly, Alex struggles parched, he holds back panting. He needs love too, he needs to remember the way it feels (like sugar on the tongue) without all the chaos of misfiring synapses or illogical perseveration to atrophy the tenuous hold we have on each other.

The last stanza of John Keats’s poem "TO-" reads,

“O for some sunny spell/ to dissipate the shadows of this hell!

O let me once more rest/ my soul upon that dazzling breast!

Let once again these empty arms be placed/ the tender gaolers of thy waist.

And let me feel that warm breath here and there/ to spread a rapture in my very hair

Oh the sweetness of pain!

Enough! Enough! It is enough for me to dream of thee.”

  

Christmas Morning... a little less painful than other mornings. December 2014, Texas

So now I know to climb down the rungs of angst I race up (on difficult nights that have flowed seamlessly from difficult days), pride jumping in my veins while I climb. I know to be humble enough to find him. To pull him close; to stop waiting for him to come to me, and instead to go to where he is. So on this night, I got out of my bed, and padded down the hall to find him swaddled like an infant. I climbed into his bed and pulled him close. “I’m sorry,” he said into my shoulder. “I know.” I said into his chest. And Alex fell asleep while I combed my fingers through his still damp hair.

And I confess, in those rare quiet moments holding onto my boy, I hate the dark night for giving in to the sun.



I love this picture, not just because of the pretty sunset,
 but because I remember coming out of the grocery store with Alex and stumbling onto it,
and we just stood there together and took it all in.
October 2014, Texas