We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.  ~Anais Nin

There’s a new act at The Circus.

Riley has assumed a new identity.  On every piece of artwork she creates, every letter of grievances against her sister, and on more than a dozen, neon-pink heart-shaped Post-It notes dotting her desk in her bedroom, she has written, “Marissa, age 7.”  When pressed, she will tell me that her full name is Marissa Chrissy Claires.  As with all of the wonderfully eccentric elements of Riley’s personality, we have met this new thread in our “grand adventure” with big smiles, privately raised eyebrows, and much shared laughter.  After all, Riley thinks this is hilarious.  In fact, she loves to tell other people (randomly) that she is 7 years old.  She tries hard to suppress the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth and looks off to the side, afraid that if she meets your gaze she will burst with laughter.   I find this especially funny when she chooses to tell someone who barely knows her or is significantly younger than she, because not knowing her true age or understanding her sense of humor, they are completely lost on the joke.

A few days ago, I overheard a conversation the girls were having on the trampoline.

“Riiilleeey, that’s not nice.  Don’t say that to me.”

“I’m not Riley.  I’m Marissa.  And I’m 7 years old.”

“Riley, you’re not 7.  You’re 9.”

“But…but…I’m just saying, Zoe, I’m 7 years old.  That’s what I said.  I said it four times. Because I like 7.  7 years old is my favorite age.  7 years old like Adam.”

Unfortunately for Riley, her body is definitely not 7 years old.  She’s growing up.  I’ve noticed.  In fact, I feel like I am strapped into a terrifying roller coaster ride, and we are at the part where the car we’re in is creaking ever-so-slowly up a huge hill.  The brakes on the train are screeching (that would be me, foot pressed desperately DOWN) and the car is straining, but in the pit of my stomach I know that when we reach the top we’re going to barrel down so fast I’m going to lose my breath in the process.  That, or I’ll just resign myself to the ride, throw my arms above my head, let out a half-crazed scream, and enjoy it.

I’ve been having conversations with Riley which we both call “big girl lessons.”  She gobbles up the attention like cake, but so far, her questions and comments have been few.  She repeats facts with me, reading many for herself, but while the wheels are definitely turning, I don’t think she’s accepted any personal application beyond the things which are visually pretty impossible to deny.  I’ve wondered how much she’s absorbing.

Physical and hormonal changes are difficult for any kid, but they cause a unique anxiety in children with autism, for whom any kind of change is riddled with acute fear.  In her fabulously insightful book Thinking in Pictures, Temple Grandin wrote,

“At puberty, fear became my main emotion.  When the hormones hit, my life revolved around trying to avoid a fear-inducing panic attack (88).  …I started living in a constant state of stage fright, the way you feel before your first big job interview or public speaking engagement.  …the anxiety seized me for no good reason.  My nervous system was constantly under stress.  I was like a frightened animal, and every little thing triggered a fear reaction (111).

In the wonderful book, Girls Growing Up on the Autism Spectrum by Shana Nichols (which I am still reading), I read about a girl with an ASD who handled the changes associated with puberty by insisting that she was a “little girl.”  She refused to wear deodorant or bras, telling her mom that “little girls don’t wear deodorant and bras.”  While she persisted in her denial, her mom pressed on with teaching the basics, and eventually, her daughter asked a question about physiological development.  After that, this young girl absorbed the information her mother offered with rapt interest.

While I haven’t noticed anything in Riley that outwardly looks like acute fear, I’ve seen definite signs that she feels anxiety about being unable to control or understand her own emotions.  With the tiniest indication that things will not be as she expected or desired them to be, she fights back tears and finally concedes, wilting into sobs.  While disappointed tears are certainly not unusual for girls at any age, struggling with the lack of control seems unique to puberty.  Little girls (Zoe Zoe Zoe) use their tears to advantage.  Riley fights a visible battle and then gives up.  When I ask, “What’s wrong?” and she says, “I just…I just…I feel like I miss somebody,” I can feel my own arms clinging to my mom’s waist as my tears soaked her shirt.  I hear my own young voice lamenting, “I don’t know…I’m just SAD.”

It is the human condition to mourn the things over which we have no control and often to deny the unexpected thing we see clearly coming on the horizon until we have courage and strength enough to bear it.  This is, after all, what growing is all about.  Still, sometimes I’d just rather not grow (or at least that’s what I’m thinking).  I long for alternate realities or a choose-your-own adventure life.  Oh, to choose a different ending (“If you want to fall into the deep dark hole, turn to page 5o.  If you want things to turn out well, turn to page 77…”  When we were kids, one of my brothers developed a method for reading those books so that he’d know how every single possible choice would turn out.) or, if I’m smart enough, maybe I can find a “soft spot” in the universe and walk through to a different world.  A “do-over,” maybe?

Ever since that Fringe finale aired, I’ve been joking with a few good friends (who appreciate my sense of humor) about my “alternate reality.”  Come on now, how many times (Mom?  Mom.  MOM!  Mommy?  Mommmmmyyyyy. Mom. Mom. MOM.) have you joked about changing your name?

“Who’s mom?  I’m Anastasia.  I’m 25.   My belly has never extended to the point that I look like I swallowed a  watermelon whole, and I have absolutely no idea what my body would look like with stretch marks.  As a matter of fact, what are stretch marks?  Mom?  No idea where she went.  Sorry, gotta go, I’m off to the beach.”

It occurred to me that my daughter is no different than I am when facing changes that I cannot comprehend or control.  Denial is a drug that soothes anxiety to sleep, putting it off for some unknown moment of readiness.  I remember all of the “alternate realities” I created for myself in the early days before Riley’s diagnosis with autism.  I told myself that Riley was just a late talking, very independent child who preferred quiet and solitude to exuberant social situations.  There was nothing wrong with my daughter (Side note:  Now I am certain that there’s nothing wrong with her, but equally certain she has autism.:)).  In the face of what appeared to be a truly insurmountable unknown, I told myself that if I just put forth my best effort, I could make sure that she developed as she should.  I could work away all of the challenges she seemed to face by the sheer force of my Iron Will.

Many times, I still try to convince myself that this is true.  In some vast, barren subconscious wasteland, I reason that if I exert enough control, I can keep all the variables in my life in a comfortably predictable state.  This too is an exhausting, self-defeating notion.  The moment my imperfection rears its ugly head, the illusion is shattered.  What is it that deludes me into thinking that it is weakness to admit to my own lack of sovereignty?  Perhaps it’s the child within.  It’s Marissa, age 7 , holding her but-it-must-be-this-way expectations in her fists.

Virtual and alternate realities…hidden, fantastic worlds…amazing new capabilities to side-step tragedy…this is the stuff of which science fiction and fantasy are made (Interestingly enough, fantasy is currently one of the fastest-growing genres in fiction).  I love to pretend that if I could hold “fate” in the palms of my hands and twist it at will, I’d be safe.  So often, I view my life like a giant chess game:  If I could just strategize 10 moves in advance, I’d win.  This doesn’t seem so silly to me (I’m an intelligent, capable woman, after all:)) until I realize that I have the life-chess Champion, the One who can see every single move that will ever occur, begging me to get out of the chair and  just let Him play the game on my behalf.

So even as I wrap my arms around Riley and press on, asking her to trust God with the days ahead, I know that I don’t always live my own life with that measure of complete surrender.  I understand her fear.  Sometimes, I’m still that little girl standing at the edge of one of life’s cliffs, trying to convince myself I’m not actually standing there.

I suppose that it’s testimony to God’s work in me that I have “my moments.”  In these Victorious moments, I echo Barbara Johnson’s mantra (Whatever, Lord!), reasoning that if a woman who lived through so much pain (the tragic deaths of two sons, a terrible accident that nearly took her husband’s life and left him paralyzed for a very long time, an 11-year estrangement from another son, and lately, a brain tumor) can surrender all of her unknown and unchosen paths to God, perhaps I too can learn to do so.  In truth, it’s essentially the single best thing God has ever allowed me to do for my children.  In my darkest days, when I wondered if Riley and Adam would ever speak (much less move on to have lives and families of their own), God slowly pried my fingers open and helped me release the expectations I held clinched in my little-girl fists.  I have learned, at least in this, to trust that whatever my childen become (and whatever they don’t), it’s all held in Mightier palms than mine, and His ways are always the best.

I’m a work in progress and so is Riley.  It’s just that I’ve stood at a few more cliffs and plunged down a few more hills with my breath caught in my throat.  One thing I have learned along the way is that it helps to open my eyes to the view, raise my arms up in the air, let go a little, and just try to enjoy the experience.

So on Saturday, Riley and I sat in the bathroom floor and I handed her a pair of toenail clippers and several bottles of nail polish.

“You know, I think you’re getting old enough to learn how to do this yourself,” I said.

I sat nearby and painted my own toenails, noting that Riley had chosen a bright, fire-engine red for her own.  I was careful not to interfere with her harmlessly independent opportunity.  When she finished, she had polish all over her slightly uneven nails and here and there on the skin around the nails.  There were smudges and inconsistencies, but she was so excited she could hardly stand still.  She flew down the stairs, plopped down at the breakfast table, and declared to her dad (flushed cheeks and all):

“Dad, I’m almost 10 years old.”

Funny thing: I haven’t seen Marissa this week.

God grant me the ability to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. ~The Serenity Prayer