A Reluctant Handshake

Alder has asked me to enroll him in a martial arts program for years.  Until this April, we lived in a log home on 5 acres 30 miles west of Missoula (the closest major town).  Clearly our distance created logistical problems.   His older brother plays competitive soccer at least 3 days a week.  I used to coach and Jay and I played soccer at least 2 nights a week.  Add to that multiple car rides to and from weekly doctor appointments for Alder, and you've got a life that includes at least 8 hours of weekly, high speed windshield time.  I was as eager to add one more reason to drive as I am excited to take a cold shower.  But driving 120 miles a day and managing 3 boys in the car aren't the only reasons I waited until last fall to enroll Alder in Taekwondo. The truth is, I hate seeing him struggle.

Nothing in Alder's life has come easy to him.  He could barely talk until he was 4.  It took an intense amount of work for him to stop repeating words and structure his own sentences.  Most of the time in those early days I'm certain he wasn't even sure what he was saying.  He was trying to engage and appropriately communicate with others.  But his language was very scripted, as though he were repeating something out of a movie (which often, he was).  At times he still struggles to connect cohesive thoughts as his mind quickly races to the next idea before he completes his first one.  One minute he's clearing his plate after dinner and before it finds its way into the dishwasher he's in his bedroom working on his latest project. We all suffer from a version of this type of mind racing from time to time but his remains conflicting in ways that are almost indescribable.  Imagine a passenger train skipping 3 stops.  Conflict undoubtedly occurs.

When we finally enrolled him in a local taekwondo program he was thrilled.  It was truly the first time I've seen him excited to participate in a group activity.  I swallowed fear walking him through the door hoping that this would be the "thing" that made him feel like a champion.  For so long he's been overshadowed by his older brother who walks with ease through every activity that Alder finds challenging--sports, school, friends.  Was I setting him up to fail or to continue walking in the shadows of his siblings and peers?

The discipline and predictability of this sport fit Alder like a favorite pair of socks.  He felt comfortable and even though at times he struggled to follow instructions, pay attention and stay on task, he just seemed to "get" it.  Maybe for the first time, he found a place where he truly felt like he belonged. Nearly all aspects of his life leave him feeling like everyone knew something he didn't--as though he was the only one who didn't know the wizard hid behind the curtain.  And perhaps for the first time I was able to relax and breathe for a couple minutes hoping his feelings of acceptance and confidence would remain solid.  And then it happened:  2 weeks into the sport they announced a local sparring tournament.  Alder couldn't wait for the opportunity to actually fight on the mat.  This desire shocked me since his nature remains inherently docile and kind.  We signed him up and I'm sure I stopped breathing.  I knew I couldn't take a full breath again until we arrived at the end of the tournament.  It's not because I don't have confidence in his abilities.  He tried wrestling one year and did fairly well.  The fear bubbled up because I had never seen him have so much confidence with a sport as he demonstrated in those 2 short weeks of class and I didn't want anything to spoil it.  I think as moms we often struggle between holding on and letting go.  This opposition has been particularly tenuous with Alder because letting go is so much more difficult.  When he falls it's a much bigger drop than his brothers and the ground always seems a little bit harder.

The day of the tournament arrived and he beamed.  Part of his thrill came from the simple act of wearing the gear.  He looked like a mini combo of the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man and a Gladiator in his white suit, shin pads, arm pads and bright red helmet.  When they called his name he ran to the mat.  And my heart stopped.

Have you ever watched your child get the snot beat out of him?  I have.  And I'm certain it was WAY more painful for me than for him...

He fought in 4 matches.  He lost them all.  By a lot.  And he cried through every match.  And my heart took a serious beating.  I cried on the sidelines watching him struggle feeling a lot like what I imagine a captive animal mama experiences when a zookeeper handles their young:  sensing you don't belong where you are but you're not exactly sure what to do about it or how to effectively protect your baby from harm because you're completely out of your natural environment. I watched and cheered him on simply because I didn't know what else to do.  With every kick, punch and point scored by his opponent, Alder became increasingly frantic.  By the 4th match he was reprimanded for taunting his opponent by saying things like, "hey how do you like me now, huh?" and laughing sarcastically as he darted and dodged to avoid contact.  And I felt embarrassed and ashamed for him--not because he did anything wrong but because his only defense (taunting) got beat down as hard as Alder did.  He was a caged animal, backed in a corner with no defense.  Reflecting back on this experience I can't help but laugh a little both at the sheer ridiculousness of it all and because sometimes I laugh when I'm afraid or when I just don't know what else to do. I suppose finding humor has become a natural defense mechanism to help me through some pretty dark places in my life.  If I can't look at my own life and laugh at the material, I'd say I deserve every extra wrinkle that taking myself too seriously delivers.  So why not laughter?  Sure beats the alternative (crying).

When his final match was over Alder was choke-crying.  You know--crying so hard you can only choke down inhales like hiccups.  His hair was wet, coated in sweat and tears and his face was as red as a stoplight.  As with most sporting events there's an official hand shake between opponents after the match.  Alder refused to shake the boy's hand.  Head down he turned to walk away defiantly.  It was all he had left in his fight and my guess is this action gave him some control over his defeat.  Master Steve (owner and lead of the dojang where Alder practices) noticed and began making his way toward Alder.  The poor opponent appeared confused about his next move as he hesitated before aimlessly leaving the mat.  Again the shame bubbled up.  Not only did my kid clearly demonstrate what every parent hopes their child doesn't experience in a match (a serious ass beating) but also demonstrated, what appeared to be on the surface, poor sportsmanship.

Now let me unpack this whole experience a little.  And for the record--this is not me trying to make excuses for my child.  I'm the last one to let my kids get away with disrespectful behavior (or get away with much of anything really).  And I hold Alder to the same standards as my other kids.  It just looks a little different from child to child as I think it does for all parents who have multiple kids.  Here's a little glimpse of what it's like parenting a child with social/emotional challenges for those who don't quite get it from personal experience.  And for those of you who do have personal experience here, I hope this helps you know that you're not in it alone.

Alder wasn't being intentionally disrespectful when he refused to shake that boy's hand.  He was attempting to exercise the only source of strength and power he had left--disengagement and downright refusal to participate in a situation that innately set him up for failure.  It's highly unlikely he was conscious of his emotions at the time.  His fight or flight mechanisms remained on high alert.  The fight didn't work so it was flight's turn.  Enter:  handshake refusal.

I wanted to go to him, scoop him up and tell him he never needed to wear another dobok (uniform) or set foot in another dojang.  We would shake the boy's hand together and leave and never come back.  My flight mechanisms have gotten really strong over the years, too.  The daily fight of trying to successfully navigate social life with a child who constantly feels on the fringe of social normativity becomes daunting and exhausting just like Alder felt in the tournament.  I could totally identify with how he felt.  You can only take a beating for so long before the exist strategy dominates all rational decision making.

It appeared to me that Alder attempted to exercise some sense of control in a situation that presented as chaotic, frantic and completely defeating.  His refusal to shake hands gave him power over a situation where he remained otherwise completely powerless.  I didn't necessarily support his choice yet I understood where he was coming from and the truth is:  I didn't know what to do.  How could I kick him when he's down by insisting he adhere to social normativities that aren't always kind or don't always apply to a child who, by default, lives outside these boundaries more often than he lives within them?

When Master Steve stepped in I choked on my heart.  It jumped into my throat and I remember feeling a giant hole in my chest where it once beat normally.  I don't know what he said to Alder and I'm not sure his words were as effective as his actions.  He hugged Alder tightly.  Alder's love language is physical touch.  I imagine Master Steve told him what a great job he did, how courageous he was to enter the tournament and the only acceptable way to end the match was to congratulate each other on a fair fight.  Even if his opponents were more experienced, more skilled and could simply understand the concepts of sparring a little more quickly than Alder could process, rules are rules.  Alder is a rule follower.  This is all speculation of course. Their interaction was tender yet firm as Alder sheepishly walked with Master Steve, still choke crying, to shake the boy's hand.  Alder left the mat to find me and Master Steve gave me a look as if to say, "It's all going to be ok, mom."  His eyes made it obvious he could tell I had been crying.

I immediately hugged Alder and didn't want anyone to see him or judge him.  I say this a lot but it's hard for outsiders to understand the internal struggles of a child who otherwise looks "normal" on the outside.  My hug was pushed aside as his flight mechanism drove his decisions.  It was time to leave. His older brother, Fischer, congratulated him on his tournament and Alder dismissed him with a waving hand saying, "don't talk to me about it, Fischer."  He forbade anyone from commenting on his performance or even talking about it.  We drove to our local health food store to eat lunch in silence with the exception of Alder's attempt at regaining his composure and occasional choke crying.  I could hear the rain splashing against the tires.  It was a strange sound since my car is never quiet enough to hear anything.  Alder refused to go into the store and I know it's because he was afraid people would see his cry face.  No one likes to publicly display cry face.  It often provokes questions we're not emotionally ready to answer.

After a little persuasion he joined us for lunch.   He is, after all, my child and food dominates much of our thoughts. And he likely built up quite an appetite during those endless rounds of beatings.  Lunch was mostly uneventful since we were all a little afraid of talking about what we had just witnessed.  No one wants to repeatedly expose sore, new wounds.

In talking to him on our drive home he said something that perplexed me.  When I asked him what he thought of his overall experience with the tournament I expected him to say he hated it, that he never wanted to compete again and that he was done forever with Taekwondo.  But instead he said this:  "I loved it!  You can't get good at something if you don't try."  I thought for a long, long time on his response.  It occurred to me that the tournament was a metaphor for much of his life.  He's been beat down by doctors, teachers and peers--round after round after round.  We've been criticized for unorthodox methods in navigating his recovery from autism. His dietary restrictions often make him stand out when all he wants to do is fit in.  And yet, he maintains composure when faltering.  He remains focused when he's beat down and when most of us would willingly relinquish.  And he gets up again, and again and again to continue the fight.  He shakes hands with his inflictor when he's feeling mostly broken.  And he shakes it off, sometimes easier than others, and finds the silver lining.  I did not teach him these qualities.  His life experiences have.  And this is not my meager attempt at humility.  It's fact.  Nothing shapes us more than life experiences.  Each experience weaves together like individual threads to construct the fabric of our lives.  There are so many different directions this child could take.  Self pity is first to come to mind and, shamefully, I think I'd likely fall into that place.  Yet he's fierce with his convictions and ever fiercer with his drive which is so uncharacteristic to someone so young.

The handshake with the boy meant Alder was still in the fight.  He simply won't quit.  And although many days still feel defeating to me like I felt at that tournament--constantly grocery shopping, monitoring dietary restrictions, advocating on his behalf with friends, parents, teachers, doctors and sometimes strangers, researching new therapies and dietary connections to his illness--I'm forever willing to offer the reluctant handshake.  Not because I always want to.  But because Alder taught me that it's the right thing to do.              










(I have a cape on everyday)