It’s not often that Ethan divulges any of his feelings, so when a rare moment happens, the rest of us take it all in. The other night it was Katy who overheard a conversation between Ethan and one of his friends, in the car on the way home from the school quiz night.
Ethan and three of his mates from school had come back to our home, raked around, had 
something to eat (brain food), made team posters and practised some quick-fire rounds before we headed up the hill, back to school. It always does my heart good to see Ethan with this particular group of three friends. They are such lovely boys: funny, loud, quiet, good-mannered and above all else (in my books anyway) KIND. (And they eat whatever I cook them!) They handle Ethan with acceptance, understanding, honesty and patience.
As the evening went on, I could sense Ethan experiencing sensory overload as he began to excuse himself more frequently from the hall to get some space. The boys assured me, ‘he’ll be back in a minute’. This told me that they KNOW him. They KNOW that he can’t cope for 2 hours in a hall with 70 other people, bright lights, music, chat, time restraints for questions etc. They KNOW that he needs a break. No-one went after him and when he returned there were no questions, just back to business.
They argued about answers, gave way to each other, admitted graciously when they got it wrong and bigged up each other when they got it right. We came somewhere near the bottom of the leader board, but they got prizes for being the only team with posters, and they were happy. At the end of the night there were hugs and high fives, plenty of laughter and the energy of fizzy drinks and jelly beans.
But the conversation on the way home was both a little sad and heart-warming. The boys were talking about the quiz and their friends at other tables, when Ethan began to tell M how glad he was that M was Ethan’s friend. He began to tell him that outside of these 3 boys, at school he doesn’t have any real friends. He feels the others don’t like him, don’t include him, think he’s weird.
E: They don’t like me.
M: They think you have issues. Problems. That you’re ‘psycho’. (Hopefully that’s an expression for ‘a little different from what’s normally expected’.)
E: So why are you my friend then?
M: I don’t think they’re right. I like you the way you are. I’ll always be your friend, no matter what happens.
Between the tears that Katy and I shared as she recounted this to me, we determined to do our best together to help Ethan with these three friendships. To create opportunities more often for him to get together with the ‘Thunder Knights’ and for him to feel and appreciate in his own way, the love and acceptance that they give to him.
The problem. I’m a procrastinator. I put off a lot of things (that I don’t enjoy doing) until the very last minute of must. And then some things, like the emails, I just avoid totally. I have pushed sitting down and writing this to the top of a list that includes things like….send parcel, clear desk, purge emails! I have lists about lists. And lists about those lists. I have an almost tangible feeling that if I make a list, I’ve pretty much got everything done already.
From time to time, I encourage myself with little mantras to spur me on to list-ticking instead of list-making. One of my simplest, most direct is, ‘just do it Kathryn!’ You’d think that would work, right? I’m not going to make lots of excuses for myself: too busy, not enough hours in the day, etc. And I’m not going to make any promises to myself either. That I will somehow pull it out of the hat, change beyond recognition and be the most organised person on the planet. But I think I need to find a way through the middle somewhere.
movie dialogues, no lengthy exchanges about the fact that it’s time to get dressed/eat dinner/turn off/go out/come back/go to bed. I can hear myself thinking. It’s wonderfully strange and strangely wonderful. I have left them all at home and flown to my other home to visit Mum (and Dad, but Mum’s the patient with the broken wrist.)
Mud and Sparkles 