with is just better
Riley walks in carrying her hairbrush in one hand. She’s still in pajamas–soft black, printed with dozens of unblinking owls keeping watch. Her plump, bare feet lightly thwick against the linoleum. She finds me half-together, though to say that can be misleading, since I am never really all put together. Every morning I dress in armor of every kind—clothes, also peace and faith.
“There goes Mom Jones,” she says with no small amount of surprise, as though I have just returned from an expedition, instead of the other way around. Humbly, I realize that it’s just that Riley looks for me as she travels along, and the path has brought her here, into my bathroom.
“Oh yes, here I am,” I say, grinning over my own silent for what it’s worth. But that’s just the thing: to Riley, being together is premium treasure.
She laughs and it’s all joy as she begins to gather locks of her thick, brassy hair in one hand, as she slowly drags that brush through each ribbon. On her own, our Riley gets lost in a litany of meaningless, obsessively repeated rituals, a monotonous pit from which she can’t climb free. But somehow, doing life side-by-side us sets her free, cracking open chains of preoccupation she neither understands nor consciously chooses. With is better for Riley.
I watch her carefully now, considering, and my attention makes her laugh. “There goes Mom Jones,” she says again, caught up in knowing I see her.
With is just better for us, I correct. Because I’m preoccupied too when left on my own; it’s just that I obsess over different things–conversations that stung, details I don’t understand; how to manage an over-filled day. But I realize now, catching her laughter and taking it up, that doing life side-by-side also sets me free from the tangle of my thoughts, free to enjoy what’s meaning-full.
“Mom Jones, you have a big bath tub,” Riley says conversationally, gesturing with one elbow toward the soaker tub that had been my request so many years ago when our house was built. I glance at the tub, noticing the clear light beaming now through the window above it.
As she brushes her hair, Riley talks to me of all the whys behind what I do, making happy observations about the ordinary rhythms of our life together. Suddenly, in her open-hearted comments, the ordinary things again become our blessings.
“I do,” I say, realizing I had not thought of it that way in quite some time. “And I’m thankful for it.”
“Yes, I’m thankful for it too,” she says, “I’m glad you have that big tub,” and I smile at this, because she reminds me to give thanks for gifts that don’t serve me.
Riley turns now to go and get her clothes, but she pauses in the doorway, assessing my progress. “But you’re already dressed now,” she says reluctantly, anticipating that my readiness means I will leave this room, that she will no longer get to be with me.
“Oh, go ahead and get your clothes,” I tell her. “I’ll be here a bit yet, and you can dress in here while I fold some laundry.”
“Mmmhmm, yes I can, Mom Jones,” she says, pleased, and turns on her heel to collect her things.
They say that people with autism don’t understand relationships, that they can’t make deep connections like the rest of us. They say autism steals away their ability to understand love. But I beg to differ.
I press my hands into warm towels now, and from the bathroom, Riley tells me about having a seizure at school.
“A friend brought me a glass of water, after,” she says, “and Josh sat beside me and held my hand. I had to sit down during P.E., but Josh sat with me.”
I set aside one folded towel and reach for another. “That’s great, Ri,” I say, silently giving thanks for friends, for Josh, for teachers who love Riley and know how to take care of her.
“And Mom Jones?”
“Yes?”
“Josh didn’t leave my side the whole time. When I had my seizure? He stayed with me. He held my hand.”
Yes, love stays, love sits, love dwells with, I’m thinking, but I say, “I know, and I’m so glad.”
“Mmmhmm, yes you are, Mom Jones,” Riley says from the bathroom. I can feel her grinning.
While I often minimize this simple, grand thing–the withness of Love–my “relationally-challenged” daughter understands. She holds together in her hands like a treasure, wears it on her head like a crown. She repeats herself, maybe wondering if I can comprehend that love looks the two of us right here just doing life together.
Yes, yes, I understand. I drop the towel in my hands and walk over to the bathroom door so she can see me seeing her as she straightens the folded hem at the edge of her t-shirt. Wake up, pet the dog, hustle, it says, this t-shirt she picked for herself, and I smile even wider through those open doors, into that clean light. We don’t have a dog, and Riley doesn’t hustle. But she teaches me all over again in her simple way, without the slightest hint of pride or assessment, without ever intending to do so. Riley teaches me about love by loving me.
