Tag Archives: Disneyland

becoming a young man

The same year Ben found out about Santa not being real was the same year he found out that his parents would be separating. It will be one of those years of his life, I imagine, that he will run through the sieve of therapists and romantic partners and his own mind again and again to see what kind of insight catches. I was 10 when my mom died. It’s a year I return to often. A month after Benjamin turned 10, our divorce was finalized.

Ben did not take the Santa thing well. Here was a boy who did not believe in God but clung fiercely to all things magical, like Muppets and the Easter Bunny. I promised myself when he asked me if Santa was real, I would tell him the truth. One night, he asked. “Do you want the truth?” I responded. Yes, he told me. He looked sure. I looked straight into those sweet blue eyes and told him. And he shot betrayal back at me, howled from somewhere deep inside, ran down the hall and into his room, and slammed the door shut. He cried in ugly heaves, his face smeared with tears and snot, and Ryan and I sat next to him and tried to calm him. He reminded us about this dream he had in which Santa broke into his room and “rifled” (he said rifled) through his things and determined that he was good. In his dream, he had seen Santa’s boots at the end of his bed and looked up to see Santa staring down at him. This sounded pretty terrifying to me, but he was certain it was real and good. We had to assure him it had all been just a dream. We petted his hair and gently scratched his back and gave him all of the best lines about Christmas being in your heart etc. etc. but nothing made it better. The magic was gone. The Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny fell in quick succession. He gradually came to accept it, but I felt horrible for lying to him in the first place.

Then, later that year, we had to sit Ben down and tell him we were separating. It went much the same way. He made a terrible noise from somewhere deep within. It cracked my heart. He ran away from us and slammed his bedroom door again, but this time he locked it against us. You promised me, he said. You promised. He was right. I had promised. Years before, he had asked my why my dad and stepmom lived in separate houses, and I told him about divorce. I told him not to worry because it would never happen to us. I believed that then. That was back during the time when I believed that I could simply bend everything to my will and make it the way I wanted it, that I could give the kids a childhood completely free of some of the struggles I faced as a kid. But we were not doing well, and hadn’t been doing well for a long time. We sat together, all three of us on the bed, and Ryan and I petted and tried to soothe him again. We listened to all of his worries. We told him we would always be friends, would always love each other, just in a different way, and, most importantly, would always love him and his brother. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know how much of it Ben believed. I can’t blame him.

Ben is growing up. In the past few months, he started asking about puberty. So I got out my trusty It’s Perfectly NormalHe knows all about male and female bodies, sex, the changes he will go through. Given his age, he still seems to see sex as primarily a way to make babies. He’s into science. That aspect isn’t yet upsetting. But the body thing, he isn’t happy about. He does not want acne and sweat or hair sprouting out everywhere. He told me he is going to make an invention to stop all of it. I try to make it sillier. I make up a song about puberty. I ask him to imagine what his dad would sound like with a young boy’s voice. He laughs and then his little forehead wrinkles again with worry. He thinks so much, all of the time, in all directions. I’m sure he tells me just a fraction of it. He does not want to grow up.

I remember when I was a little older than Ben, and I looked around, and everything seemed less magical. I had seen divorce and my mother had died and my family was weird and I didn’t have any friends at school. I went to Disneyland for a school field trip and found myself calculating ride line times and performing price comparisons with increased efficiency and reduced joy. I could see, plainly, how crowded and expensive it was. It seemed small and hot and not worth it. I didn’t enjoy it again until I got to take my own children there and see it again through them.

Ben is growing up and seeing that life can be difficult. Magical things are tarnished, or gone altogether. I hope he will forgive me for my role in helping him to realize that. I want to smooth everything in his life that is rough, but I can’t. I am just trying to love him through it, even the wounds that I inflict. I want him to avoid growing as cynical as I can be, but I don’t know how to stop it.

I, too, have grown up and seen that life can be difficult. I had a bunch of illusions about myself that have just imploded. But it’s not necessarily bad. Being more uncertain has opened me up, too. There is so much to still learn about and see in a new way. There are so many small things to marvel at, like that spot of moonlight I notice on the floor of my bedroom at 3 a.m. when I am awake, worrying.

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the evidence

We take a lot of photos, and they mostly end up on our phone, on our computer, on Facebook. We rarely print them out to hang on the wall or enclose in a physical album. Most of the time, we forget about them. Today is Elliott’s birthday, so I thought I’d try to find a baby photo to post on Facebook. I scrolled through iPhoto, way back to Elliott’s 1st birthday party. Elliott was wearing a silky blue “1st Birthday” crown with a matching onesie. He didn’t look upset, really. It’s something closer to alarm, and it is in every photo. Even in the few in which he smiles, his, wide, worried eyes don’t match his curving mouth. He slept most of that day. He tasted his first cake, and then he went to sleep. In fact, he slept for nearly six hours, which was not normal for him. We hadn’t gotten the diagnosis of autism yet, but I knew something was wrong. All of the photos from that day reveal a beautiful and confused little boy, held by a depressed and overweight mother. This was a hard time. The photo album before Elliott’s First Birthday is Ben’s First Trip to Disneyland, during which the sensory processing problems we did not know he had, coupled with his severe language delay, reveal an overwhelmed and miserable little boy. Not the trip we had envisioned. This was also a time, unfortunately, during which I felt it was completely acceptable to wear a do-rag out in public, even to Disneyland. And then to be photographed in that state. These were desperate times.

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Elliott’s first birthday

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the decidedly unhappiest place on earth

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me. do-rag. Disneyland. not okay.

Last year, we sang happy birthday to Elliott, tentatively gauging his response. Would he be overwhelmed? Would he want any cake? We created a “safe” room for him to retreat into, with his favorite movies and music videos playing on loop. He used it once or twice, but not much. He had a friend over to celebrate, a huge first for him, and they played together the entire time, pausing for hugs and smiling together for the camera.

This year, he’s been talking about his birthday for weeks. He helped plan it. He invited two friends from school to a small party at the local bowling alley. He chose where he wanted to go to dinner. He jumped into our beds this morning, excited for the day to come. Ben made him a present and played Happy Birthday for him on the piano. There will be cookies at school, and cupcakes at dinner, and there will be new photos, too. He will smile in the photos, and this time his smile will match his eyes, because every year, he is happier. Every year is better. And I know how fortunate we are for that.

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