Wet

Standing at our kitchen island, I was tending to something on the stove one day when in walked our older son, oh-so-casually, naked from the waist down.

"Excuse me, kind sir," I said to him, "just where are your pants?"

"Wet," he said as he set about picking out a cup from the cup drawer and filling it with water.

Wet? From what? I was just with him two minutes ago. All was dry in this household. Younger brother had been spewing the weather forecast ad nauseum for the past five days, and there was no rain in sight.

His morning bus was about to arrive to take him to school. I didn't have time for his nudity.

All of a sudden I thought, oh dear, did I hear him in the bathroom? I made my way to the loo, all the while thinking, please, oh, please, oh, please, oh, please...whew! Toilet was all clear.

So, what gives?

I grabbed a pair of clean underpants from the basket of extras I keep in the bathroom--because I'm not stupid--when I saw his used undies and pants lying on the floor under the sink. Bravely, I went in to investigate.

He must have been getting a drink from the bathroom sink. Perhaps he thought he dripped onto his pants? However, truly, those pants were dry. They were. I found nothing there. NOTHING.

Yelling our son's first and last names at the top of my lungs, I ordered him back to the scene of the crime in order to PUT HIS PANTS BACK ON. There was clearly nothing wrong here, and it was time for school.

I waited.

FIRST-AND-LAST-NAME-SON YOU GET YOUR FANNY IN HERE RIGHT NOW AND PUT YOUR PANTS ON. We are NOT animals in this house. Cave people, perhaps. Animals, not a chance.

I waited.

Seething, I clenched his pants in my fist and marched back into the kitchen where he stood motionless, his eyes large with fear.

"Wet," he said softly.

"These are not wet!" I said extremely frustrated. "Now, put them on!"

He didn't move. He was throwing down the gauntlet. In my eyes, this meant battle. I put those pants on him. I put them on him so fast he didn't know what hit him. I did it with sass, I looked him in the eyes to show him who was boss, and I walked away for dramatic effect.

He took off his pants.

Sigh. I grabbed them. I searched. I searched long and hard. But for some droplets of humidity that might have landed within its fibers, there was no wetness anywhere on those pants. Not that I could tell. No way.

"GET YOUR PANTS ON!" I told him sternly. Clothing was not optional at school.

He didn't move.

With the voice inside my head swearing up a storm, I approached him with those pants; however, this time he was ready. No sooner did I get one leg on than he would take it off. We struggled. Pants on. Pants off. Pants on. Pants off.

Until finally, pants on.

I put those pants on him with authority, and I told him sternly to KEEP THOSE PANTS ON HIS BODY.

That's when I saw it. So unassuming. So small. The resting place of a tiny droplet of water that must have landed upon the thigh of his pants when he was getting water in the bathroom. Sure, it was nearly dry at this point, but you tell a sensory defensive child that something he doesn't like to wear is really "okay".

Go ahead. I dare you.

So many times during my journey of being a conventional mom to unconventional kids, I catch myself, as an observer to their ways, reacting--reacting with thoughts about what I think should be happening based upon how I expect life to go. Instinctively, I am not autistic. Instinctively, my children are.

I'm getting quicker with my response system, with being able to adopt their perspective so that I can help them grow in this world. But, well, sometimes the switch isn't so seamless.



This entry was brought to you by the letter prompt "W" in the Blogging A to Z April 2012.