Page 8 of Catching Our Moment

Kelcie

September

“Mom…” Aaron came into the kitchen, holding his headphones. “Do I have to take these?”

I opened the dishwasher and started to put the dishes away but turned to give him my full attention. He usually took his earphones everywhere without issue, especially somewhere unfamiliar and with a very loud, very big crowd.

Even after years of various therapies, noise was still extremely difficult for him to handle. The fact that he was even willing to try to attend the game was monumental.

I leaned across the counter and put the drying towel on my shoulder. “Do you want to take them?”

He stared down at them, shifting on his feet. “I want to take them because I need them. I just don’t want to need them.”

I walked over to him and touched his shoulder. “First of all, I think it is a very mature thing that you recognize that you may need them.”

He didn’t say anything but continued staring at the headphones.

I put a hand on each shoulder, facing him but not forcing him to look at me. “I think taking them would be a good idea.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t turn away. He kept stroking the top of the earphones. “Other boys don’t wear them. People look at me.”

This was the part I hated. Sometimes it was very frustrating to have a child on the autism spectrum.

As he got older, he became aware of his differences and, too often, had those differences blatantly pointed out as unacceptable.

I realized I couldn’t change how the world reacted to his perceived quirks or his needs—the ignorance and cruelty of others weren’t within my control.

The best I could do was prepare him for how to deal with it.

I opened a drawer, took out a small container I recently bought, and handed it to him. “These are earplugs used by men who work in really loud places—like with jets and construction sites. They are made of foam, so they are more comfortable than what we tried before. Do you want to try them?”

He reached for them and studied them.

“They can fit in your pocket,” I added. “Why don’t you go in the bathroom and see if you like them? I think there are instructions for how to place them in properly.”

He nodded but hooked his earphones around his neck, keeping them with him like a security blanket.

“You know, we don’t have to go?—”

He immediately shook his head. “I want to go. I want to go to a game.”

“Okay, then we’ll go. We can take it one step at a time.

Remember I showed you what the suite would look like.

” I reached into the fridge to grab some juice.

“We’ll have snacks and drinks in the suite, and we can watch from the seats outside or go inside if it gets too loud.

” I grabbed a glass and poured him some juice, setting it down in front of him.

“And Shaw sent us jerseys with his number so we can look like him. But if it’s not comfortable, we can?—”

“I want the jersey.” He drank his juice.

Of course he did. I nodded. “Okay, then. We have our wardrobe arranged.”

He finished the juice, and his face lit up. “So, we’ll be the same.” He smiled.

In the past, anything that reminded James of how close Shaw and I used to be was an automatic invitation to drama. I’d had to leave all my Shaw memorabilia with my dad—photos, college jerseys, mementos. Nothing had come with me.

One silver lining to the divorce: none of that mattered now.

I was reclaiming a part of who I used to be, the piece of the person who was so interwoven with Shaw that it had become part of my identity—Shaw and Kelcie, Kelcie and Shaw.

Well, alright, we weren’t anywhere near that now.

But going to his game, wearing his jersey to cheer him on…

That seemed like a first step to reclaiming who I used to be because, throughout my high school crushes and his college hook-ups, we always had a spot for each other.

Until James. Until Aaron.

When I chose to marry the father of my child, I disengaged from Dawson Shawfield’s rising star and did not saddle him with my burdens, but I left a piece of myself behind too.

Now, without James’s demands and conditions, maybe reclaiming that part of myself could help smooth out a decade of change, and we could establish at least a newly defined surface friendship.

It would have to be rewarding enough. Considering how different our lives had become, it would be enough of a blessing.

I couldn’t bring myself to wish for more.

I smiled back at him. “That sounds like a great plan.”