The Weight of Love

 

Love Locks, Pont des Arts bridge, Paris, France. February 2015

Paris is effortlessly enchanting; the setting surreal. When I visited last February, It appeared I’d climbed off a plane and stumbled onto a movie lot. I stammered through the set, feeling hideously underdressed and under-classed; a poor peasant, gawking apologetically at the beauty, (trying not to look like the obvious star struck outsider I was -not even fit to be cast as an extra). Every detail was impeccable: the lighting a warm caress, the irresistible chinks of cobblestones clicking against my boots as I walked. The River Siene lapped the edge of the city while sail boats swayed seductively on the waves. The wafting aroma of fresh pastry seemed to melt into the canvas backdrop –It must be a painting? I’d reasoned, and worried croissant crumbs would leave a greasy mark. The bookstands, the structures, the texture of culture and heritage and history settled in my soul a mystery to be unwound. But the story would have to wait to be absorbed, because I was distracted by a (make-your-womb-hurt) little girl; a red scarf tied smartly around her neck, who was holding a crepe to her mouth, a trail of sugar and butter dripped like bread crumbs as she walked. “Lick ever last drop!” I’d thought “Don’t be ashamed to suck the sugar spot on your sweater.  You don’t want to miss anything!”

 

It was SO cold...I had on a pair of leggings, jeans, a wool undershirt,

a shirt a sweater and two coats. But I LOVED every minute!

Paris SCREAMS romance; a siren call for lovers. A batman beacon in the sky. Everywhere you turned couples were tucked into each other, their fingers intertwined, and their every step in sync. As I walked across the Regal Pont des Arts Bridge, I stopped to watch young sweethearts secure locks onto the bridge frame and throw the keys into the river. The padlocks winked in the sunlight, sharpie initials scribbled haphazardly on the links, a tangible token of couples from around the world who desired to be (wait for it) locked in love forever. I thought it was romantic and was amazed by the sheer number of metal hooks hanging from the iron bridge. But I learned the future of this ritual was doomed, because as the number of locks had surged past 700 000, the weight of love had grown heavy enough to bend the beams of iron, and break down the walls.

 

Seriously, that's a lot of love. Locks were fastened to other locks in order to secure a spot. 2015

Currently, it’s estimated each metal panel carries more than 1,100 pounds of extra weight, which is more than four times the maximum weight allowed. City workers circulate nightly, wire cutters in hand to break the locks off the bridge, but their efforts seem to be in vain, because almost immediately another lock is anchored in its place.

Eating birthday gelato with my birthday boy. It must have been good because Alex
indulged me with a birthday selfie AND birthday smile. March 30, 2015, Texas.

And this is the image I was (admittedly wistfully) remembering the other night, when hour three of four of Operation “Get Alex Unstuck” had started (I NEVER remember to wear my camo). Getting “stuck” is something Alex is exceptionally good at. Classic overachiever. A more scientific term for “stuck” would be “perseverate” and is something a lot of individuals with autism struggle with. It’s responding in the same way repetitively and can include behaviors like stemming, echolalia, obsessions and routines. Perseveration involves actions, thoughts, words, phrases and emotions. For Alex, his perseverating takes on the form of specialized interests. If the boy is into something he is INTO something. Go ahead and ask him to name all the national parks, and he can tell you their location, park hours, distinguishing features, the history of construction, how many people died there, what President made it a National Park… I could go on all day. It has been suggested that a lot of the groundwork for the computers we have today was laid by individuals who perseverated on computer chips. Perseveration has its upside, but on the flip side, it can also be a burden. For Alex, the challenge arrives in repetitive negative thought patterns that prevent him from getting past perceived wrongs and moving forward. His frustrations viewed through the prism of autism might seem illogical to everyone BUT Alex (who sees it as perfectly rational).

The history and beauty of Paris was almost my undoing. I only had my phone to take pictures with and I filled the memory. Paris, France 2015

For example, when Alex broke his arm and the doctor took off the cast, his arm still hurt and Alex was certain it was still broken. The doctor showed him the X-ray where the bone was healed, but Alex fixated on the empty space in between bones, concluding the doctor was lying, ergo all doctors are liars. This fixation lasted for YEARS. No amount of arguing, explaining, documenting, apologizing, scientific facting, OR electrical shock thereapying (kidding….too expensive wink wink) could persuade him otherwise. This road bump got tricky, because we deal with doctors a lot. AND we are friends with doctors. Yes, at my front door a Doctor and his family coming for dinner was told, “My mom is making apple pie. It smells amazing. Sorry, liars aren’t allowed in this house.” (Que door slamming). Or there was the time Alex had pneumonia complicated by asthma and refused breathing treatments (like we can trust their judgment!). There is no fixing it, when he gets stuck in a cycle of perseveration, (BELIEVE ME I’VE TRIED) and sadly, some of the issues he struggles with have become massive roadblocks in his life, preventing him from further movement. Think landslide size roadblocks, and the more you move dirt from point A to point B, thinking you are making progress, you realize he’s just been moving it back from point B to point A the whole time, and all your effort has been in vain. Furthermore, and probably the most frustrating and hardest thing to juggle, is how his landslides affect the movement of his brothers and his parents. We have all slid off the road, time and time again, mud filing our shoes as we slide, the grit of dirt slow to wash off.



Gargoyle's view: From the top of Notre Dame...just call me a hunch back! 2015

On this night, I had my feet propped up against Alex’s legs as he sunk deeper in defeat into the couch. My 6’4 bred to be a linebacker son, reminded me of a toddler who had exhausted himself after throwing a tantrum. His fists were still clenched in unresolved frustration, tears stained his face, the burden of anxiety, depression and autism, settled like concrete in his frame. He was undone. This was the third night in a row we had played this game, with no declared winner, and I was so bone weary tired of folding, of being dealt a losing hand and shuffling the cards. Finally, silence settled in the room. We sat catatonic, listening to the fan churning the air, and my mind drifted back to that bridge and the weight of love.

The River Seine was deep, and dark and beautiful. Paris, France 2015

I confess, in that midnight moment, the weight of love was not poetic, or velvety like rose petals. It was not something to be pined over. The burden of love felt crushing and for just a moment I closed my eyes and sunk into the black angst of despair. I lamented that this was not the way I envisioned love! Or motherhood, or my life. Love felt like a rock I was chained to pulling me down into an ocean of hopelessness. Love was rubbing me raw.

But. Then I blinked and looked up. I saw my son as he dipped his head and peered at me cautiously from under the shadow fringe of bangs, and love buoyed me up, pulled me to the surface, and became a lifeboat.

I want my parenting to be like this statue; the soldier who is saving the baby
(buck naked of course because how else would one save a child's life?) And
there are moments of this (only usually with clothing). Louvre, Paris, France 2015

 

But honestly mostly my parenting experiences are like this (and, usually without clothing as well...wink wink)
Louvre, Paris, France 2015

I know I’m not alone when I say this was not the life I thought I would have.  Every human has experienced that aha moment. Motherhood is so much work! I had no idea when I put that wheel in motion that IT NEVER STOPS. But, oh how grateful I am to be a mother. Because being a parent has grounded me.  I have been strengthened by love, refined and balanced by the ballast as I’ve learned to shift the density of attachment. In that moment of nighttime calm, I accepted the weight again. I remembered I didn’t want to be unchained and released; glad the key to our lock was resting against the smooth flesh of river rocks.



A break from France (geez who wants to deal with THAT all the time!!!) to another favorite place: The Tetons
Summer 2015 with my favorite boys; Alex, Logan and Spencer 

The truth is, my carpal tunnel fingers ache to type that as the sun started to rise, pink clouds stretched in gauzy strips across the horizon, that Alex miraculously took up his bed and walked. But he did not. The game was a draw. Again. I folded. Again. Dropped my cards, cried “Uncle” and asked, “Do you think you can sleep now?” Again.

I’ve repeatedly wondered if all the talking, listening, reasoning and reassuring makes even a chink in the armor of autism, let alone a dent in the shield. But, my ace up my sleeve is knowing I can perseverate too. In fact, love compels me to “repeat something intently or redundantly, usually to an exceptional degree or beyond a desired point.” I have to believe that the weight of love will be decisive.

The force is strong in this one.... Spencer and Logan throwing the weight of love around.
A FREEZING -29 degrees, hurts to breath, day in Jackson. December 2014

The gravity of devotion is cumulative; snowflakes melting like sugar in your hand while you puzzle over how one tiny flake can make any difference? (*Try a winter in Wyoming and you will see). I believe by small and simple means are great things brought to pass.  And all the times I wiped noses, wiped butts, buckled boys in car seats, (stopped on the side of the road every other mile to REBUCKLE them in car seats). All the hours enduring the stomach flu, cracked nipples, ER visits and bouts of biting. All the landforms formed, PE clothes washed, forgotten lunches delivered. All the binkies found, Halloween costumes created, knees bandaged, apples peeled. All the books read, boundaries set, chores enforced. All the sleepless nights stumbled through, lullabies sung, long lines tolerated and parent teacher conference scolding’s absorbed. All the laundry washed, pancakes flipped, tempers held and crusts removed, it all counts.

The Eiffel Tower in the background on a rainy afternoon in Paris, 2015

The weight of love can always be felt and sparkles with the light of a thousand diamonds when it banks against your window and you put your palm up to the pane, wanting to cup the miracle; overcome by the biting beauty.

And this morning, still yawning from my late night poker session with Alex, I was driving to the Middle School (Kenny Roger’s lyrics “you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em” running through my head) to drop off forgotten gym clothes to Logan for football practice. Again. And coming up on a rise in the road I was overcome by how the electrical pillar looked just like the Eifel Tower.

Taking a boat tour on the River Seine @ night.
My smile was literally frozen in place (but I looked that way in
the warmth of the hotel room too...) Ahh, Paris. 2015

 

And as a PS: This is why I'm not even qualified to work as an extra on the set of Paris, France, because I do classy things like drop my glove in the toilet at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Elegant as always, (and sadly...cold). 

 

Uh, yes. That is the bathroom at the top of the Eifel Tower.
Yes, the one where I dropped my glove in the toilet.

 

 

 

 

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