He is Good

Liam knocks on my office door. “Mom, do you want to go see a movie?” I’m in the middle of writing about spontaneity versus structure and want to keep going, but I also know he’s 24 and moving out in a week. I close my computer and spontaneity wins.We get into the movie for free because Liam works there. He loves movies and has seen The Wild Robot twice already, but he wants to watch it with me. We settle into our seats with popcorn and drinks. The Wild Robot is about a robot caring for a baby goose. The robot’s task is to teach the goose to forage for food, learn to swim, and eventually fly, but being mechanical, the robot is woefully unprepared. The baby goose faces challenges—he’s the runt of the litter, his wings are too short, and flight doesn’t come easy. He’s ostracized by the other geese for being a weirdo with a weirdo mom, and the theater feels like it’s shrinking.Liam is beautiful, clever, and energetic. He is also the reason we had to put a fence around our yard—he wanders.At preschool, he doesn’t sit still. The teacher takes it personally. I want to explain, “No, he’s good. See, he isn’t being disobedient; he just wanders.” There is too much stimulation for him to stay still—he needs to move to process it. This was before we knew the term "Asperger’s," later included in the autism spectrum. I understand his process because I’ve had to learn to manage my own distracted tendencies.In second grade, we sit in a therapist's office. She hands him paper and markers and asks him to draw a house before turning her attention to us. We are nervous young parents who feel like we are in the principal's office. She tells us that putting Liam on medication is the responsible thing to do, like getting glasses for poor vision. My young husband leans into it. He is a cancer survivor who has been saved by pills and protocol. I am not convinced, so I try to tell her that Liam is fine, that he’s good, and that he doesn't need pills.She points to our son. His picture takes up several pages. There are houses and buildings, planes and people, and parks. “Typical children will draw a house, not a whole city.” We do the "responsible" thing.When we move from California to the Midwest, the pills make little impact. I watch as my son, who already stands out, becomes the target of playground teasing.“Liam is wearing skinny jeans!” a girl shrieks over and over, punch-drunk on schadenfreude. Flapping and fluttering through the sixth-grade social circles, she seems to levitate each time she shares the news with a new cluster. Her hands wave in excited circles as she joyfully juggles these hot coals of gossip.“Liam is wearing skinny jeans!”A hard knot forms in my throat as I scan the crowd. Every other boy wears crisp beige khakis and a blue button-down, their hair neatly parted and flat to their heads. They look like little businessmen going off to work. Meanwhile, Liam wanders, weaving in and out of the groups, never landing anywhere. His long black legs, androgynous skinny jeans, and spiky blonde hair make him look like some exotic peacock prancing on the playground. Perfect target practice for the accusations of insecure pre-teens. His mother—me—hasn’t gotten the memo. But Liam is oblivious, carrying on a conversation with himself, blissfully unaware of the social suicide I have unintentionally subjected him to.Watching him wander the playground is like watching a puppy among wolves or a drunk stumble through a minefield. Yet he remains blissfully unaware. His hands move expressively as he talks to his invisible audience, conducting some private performance. It’s almost mesmerizing how committed he is to his bubble of happiness. “Liam is wearing skinny jeans!” She squawks, and I see red. My first instinct is violent—I want to chase that hideous Henny Penny of a child down, choke her off, and take her head to the asphalt. I am shaken by my rage and my brutal fantasy.My second instinct is to silence her with a fierce glare and shame her into shutting the f**k up. I see myself moving into bargaining, advocating for his kindness, spouting the splendor of his spontaneous dance moves that animate his body whenever he hears music. I want to tell her about the rare and stunning pride that swells when he sees that his solo dance party has inspired others to join him till the whole room is dancing. “Did you see that, Mom? Did you see what I made happen?” “Isn’t that a worthy offering?” I want to ask her. “Don’t you see the value there? Don’t you see his goodness?”My third and final instinct is to do nothing, surrendering my need to convince the world of his wonder. My rage turns to embers, and I sit smoldering, quietly accepting my son. This rare and wonderful bird will always be an outsider. It isn’t about the skinny jeans or the spiky hair—it is something far less sheddable.For the next ten years, he remains on the fringes of society. I read books and scan the horizon for answers, often wondering if my own ADHD makes me the worst possible mother for him. If I had been more focused and grounded, I might have figured it out sooner—enrolled him in the right clubs, found the right therapy, and given him the tools to belong.There are also days when I come to my senses and see the errors in my thinking. I have prioritized belonging over just being. Liam has mastered what I strive for. He belongs to himself. He will never walk the world with the masses. He will always fly solo. He will always see the world from a magnificently fresh perspective, from a kind heart, and a surprising and refreshing sense of humor.On the screen, the robot in the movie enlists a flight coach, who tells her, “Where his wingspan ends, his heart will make up the difference.” I smile, and then I cry. I had not realized how long I had waited to hear these words. I look over at my son, who wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and then he looks over at me. Between us floats a thousand rivers of truth, too precious to be pressed into words.But I know what I have always known and will always know for him. He is good.If you’re looking for a great movie, check out The Wild Robot. If you liked the story, please share and subscribe. If you would like to join the conversation live, head over to SpeakEasy Spiritual Community for our Sunday morning gatherings at 10:30 a.m. CT. It’s where the prodigal daughters do church. Love, Maur This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe