There are times when I think maybe Michael might be an alien.
Sometimes I just can’t figure him out; what his motivations are, what his thought processes are, where his road is taking him. By this, I mean that he often does and says things that I simply cannot reason out.
A few weekends ago he and his mom were working in the front yard, watering plants. Each time he got wet, even slightly, he deemed it necessary to do a complete wardrobe change. Because God forbid he should ever have to endure moisture of any sort.
Couple this with the fact that in just one short summer he’s become a swimming lessons champ, moving from the A class to the C class in record time. He took to water like he’s part seal, showing no fear and gladly holding his head under water from day one.
He will fairly regularly attempt front flips and pratfalls off the couch in the immediate vicinity of the very hard and corner-profuse brick fireplace hearth, showing no concern that his head might actually meet up with unyielding stone in a violent manner. The lessons from previous episodes resulting in contact with bricks seem to have been forgotten.
Just a couple of days ago we were driving along in the car and I noticed a large pile of dirt at a construction site. “Wouldn’t that be fun to play on?” I asked.
“Well, yes… but it’s too high to be safe for children, and you’d get all dirty,” he replied after careful consideration of my suggestion. I have some fond memories of playing on such a dirty pile as a child, and I do not recall even considering the notion of “dirty”.
Some kids are happy to receive a toy in a large box, and will play with that toy as it is intended. Most other kids would be more happy with the box itself. Michael would ask a parent to cut holes in the box and draw pictures on it with Sharpie markers, and while that was going on he’d crawl after the cat and see if he could antagonize her into scratching him.
Now, I remember my own childhood and a billion goofy things I did as a kid: terrorizing my brother’s models by throwing them out the window (I told him they were bombs); putting toys in the piano keyboard cover and playing “mailbox”, closing the cover and being amazed that the toys would be gone when I opened it again; climbing up in the tree in the back yard and painting the limbs with shoe polish; good times… goooood times…
So I have some understanding about being goofy. My daughters did some goofy stuff as little children too (by the way – happy 17th birthday to sister B!), but it was all stuff I could relate to.
Michael, I haven’t figured out yet.
Not long ago I tried buying old junk at Goodwill that we could take apart. He was happy to watch me take stuff apart, for a little while, but he’d soon lose interest and start shoving pennies in the cracks of the kitchen table or poking holes in the placemat.
Once in a while he’ll ask to play with the walkie talkies, but one of the first things he’ll do with them is start pushing buttons and changing the frequency so that they can’t communicate. If not that, he’ll continually press the “call” button so the other walkie talkie just rings without end.
Occasionally I’ll sit down with him and we’ll use letter tiles to spell things out. Either I’ll ask him to spell something, or I’ll spell something and ask him to sound it out. This quickly dissolves into his inventing new words and asking me what they spell, and then him becoming tearful in frustration that he can’t make a word.
The things that motivated me, that interested me, that kept me occupied throughout my childhood are not the things that keep Michael interested.
I have to accept that fact, because he’s not me. He’s Michael, and he has his own style and speed.
My prayer is that I can learn how to meet him where he is, and help him channel his energy into something more productive than bothering the cat.








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