Uncategorized – Page 9 – Embracing Chaos

Drained

August 27, 2015August 27, 2015wystansimons13 Comments

Over the past two weeks Owen’s sisters Freya and Bronwyn packed up and left for college. And this year even his little brother Oskar is packing up, going away to school in Pennsylvania. All week there have been suitcases. And mom crying. Luckily most of the crying isn’t when Owen is home. His program continues, he catches his van at the end of the driveway in the morning, and arrives home at the end of the driveway in the afternoon, just as always. Who knows what he does in between. I am pretty sure his program is very boring. For now I just say a prayer over him, and put him on that van. For now I need someone else to keep him, so I can cry and help everyone move out. So I can process the thought that frightens me – being left alone eventually to care for Owen. Caring for him each morning and each night, and each weekend in silence. Our meals in silence, his busyness and intensity in silence, calling for him and hearing silence, without any of my comical and tender Simonses to make it funny when it isn’t, without that support group of “we” to share the really funny, or tender, or surprising things that happen in life with Owen. That’s what I have been afraid of since Owen was about 5, when I began to realize my baby wasn’t growing up. That’s what I lived one summer, alone with 11 year old Owen at a clinic in Atlanta.

But I want my children to go, and to grow. Oskar has been a wonderful last kid to have at home these past years, sharing the chores and telling us about his day – we thought we’d be unbearably lonely without the girls, but we adapted, and there was great satisfaction in being four. Now Osk has other fish to fry. He has grown too big for his nest. He must shed the old skin, and find out what lies beneath. They all need to get out and explore. I hope all my tears are not selfish, I tell myself, as I fold towels, help carry boxes, and iron name labels against Oskar’s will into his pants and shirts. I hope I have loved them for them, not as slaves to do my will. Not just as a security blanket against being alone.

Late yesterday afternoon, exhausted from crying and nonsleep, I took Owen and the dogs for a walk in our woods, when I should have been making supper. My tired husband began to cook for us, and I wandered out into the woods still lit up golden in the dying sun. Owen was happy – his wonderful Wednesday afternoon sitter Kathie had taken him to the Goodwill, and Owen picked out a Ken doll and Halloween bucket there. Ken’s arms were in Owen’s pocket, and he grinned for all of these reasons. He held Rascal the dog’s leash, and we walked the dogs over the familiar paths, over the roots and mud. The woods were darkening with the coming night; I knew we should have taken our walk an hour sooner. But the huge brown trunks of tulip poplars drew my eye upward, and way, way up the sun glowed in leaves gorgeous vibrant living green against the blue sky.

This morning, as I soaped Owen up in the tub, his gesture drew my attention to a tiny bit of wood floating in the water. Owen reached under the water, focused on picking up that tiny bit, and I stared at it too. Life slowed down in that moment … water swirl… light shine… and the bit, Owen’s fingers under it. It’s the small things, the details, that Owen notices. That’s his gift. He doesn’t see or understand the big picture, but the tiny things – the tiniest wood chip. A bit of leaf. A bit of trash. The simple rhythms – of taking apart, but also putting things away. If something has a box, he wants to put it in that box. Well, sometimes. Maybe this helps him to make sense of a world in which people come and people go, and he may not know why.

There’s something peaceful there.

Starting next week it will be Edward, Owen, and me around the supper table. Just Edward and me to share the chores – cooking and the clean up, the bathing, and dressing, the watching of Owen, the doggy walks and gardens and closing up the chickens at night. Just three of us on a weekend outing. It will be lonely at first, but probably it will be ok. And at least as Edward said last night, suddenly there are a lot fewer dishes to do. What we cannot see is all the ways that Owen may grow to help us, that we may all help each other.

There is something more, behind this week’s tears. There are always more layers. Someday there may be just two, Owen and me. This is surely the scariest thought of all, the root probably of my grief in this week of leave-taking. But if Time calls Edward to leave an old tired out body behind, I wouldn’t want to stop that flight of freedom either. You love people, and do not want to hold them too tightly. Actually, you do, but you don’t. And so when the moment comes, you will let them go, trusting that your paths will entwine again, later on.

For each goodbye, always there will be crying. And then — then there will be the light swirls, the bit of something to draw your eye and hold your attention, suspended. The gorgeous golden green alive in the tree tops, if I just tip back my head, and look up. Breathe. Smile. And hold Owen’s hand.

Birthday Contemplations

August 20, 2015wystansimons6 Comments

Owen tries on a helmet during his birthday shopping outing

I took a midsummer break, dearest reader, during these so very full summer weeks of July and August. And I have missed writing to you. Will I come back with greater insight? Well-rested, inspired even, after two weeks climbing mountains and swimming in waters of the Adirondack Mountains? I thought I would. It was a wonderful break for our family, while Owen was lovingly cared for at one of the most wonderful places in the world, Camp Loyaltown, in Hunter NY. But the peace and internal calm lasted just about the usual 24 hours in the face of Real Life.

This week is our birthday week, Owen’s and mine. Twenty-two years ago Owen was the present I received a few days before my 30^th birthday. There were times when I regarded that fact as a slap in the face, or as irony, but that isn’t how it seems now. Maybe a little of that mountain top zen remains with me after all. I like to say that I don’t view life the way I did years ago. I see Owen as my teacher, and I still have a lot to learn. In other words, I flunk out a lot. At the same time, it’s true that I am the parent — I must keep on trying to reach him and teach him. We have never been the “kind of parents” to let our kids run wild, but Owen has his own ideas. As much as I appreciate him, and love him, and learn from him, he drives me crazy and I need regular breaks and daily support to keep on caring for him.

On this morning of my birthday, I find myself reflecting on that very thing – the hard-to-explain give and take of teaching and being taught, freedom and responsibility, that life with a child or adult with behaviors and an altered view of the world provides. All our contact with other human beings is a chance for softening, the sanding down of our personalities. A chance to learn to tame our impatience, relax our desire for a world without mess, or confusion, or well, other people’s needs and attitudes. I stumble over having patience with Owen, and I also stumble trying to understand the people who don’t understand him. At 52 I still experience shock when people don’t see the world as I do.

So where does my Accountability begin and end? I struggle here, in all situations, and in particular with Owen. Where are my boundaries, to use that tired psychological term. You may be offended with my behavior, but is that because YOU are offended, or because I am offensive? How much guilt do I assume for Owen being Owen, and encroaching on others’ water bottles, damaging things, or wandering into your house or yard? How much should I care (worry) about how people evaluate me when his behaviors lead to trouble? Owen can’t be allowed to do whatever he wants. But a person is not like a hedge, requiring only clipping to take the correct shape.

In the long run, I think gentle and creative redirection over a long time is capable of teaching our son to fit better into society. But I feel compassionate that he really doesn’t understand the concept of “property,” that when he wants something he has very little impulse control. When I tell him he can’t have someone elses’ _____ (fill in the blank) he may shed tears of grief. Or, he may laugh. He may resist me stubbornly. Sometimes he is mad. But bottom line, he doesn’t get it – he only knows “I want” and “I am unhappy about not having it.” He also knows guilty, and oh-oh when he’s taken whatever it is anyway and Mom is probably going to get mad.

Last night Owen ran away. Right about suppertime, his dad realized that while he thought they were both hanging out in the front yard picking beans for supper, actually only one of them was picking beans, and the other one went off to find something more interesting to do. I was annoyed, as the supper-maker, but I tune-out on Owen too often to be critical. Our family fanned out quickly, checking all the usual spots – neighbors’ recycling bins, church recycling bin, picnic tables, wood trails across the street – but no Owen. My dear cousin joined the search, and turned his teenagers out to help, combing through the summer night with flashlights. One of his sons followed the clue of barking dogs and found Owen prowling there, one street over from ours, an inexplicable location, farther than he has wandered before, and in the dark.

This meant that we spent the rest of evening researching locating devices. Locating devices are very expensive, and prior to now it seemed an extreme response to an occasional inconvenience. Uncertain whether Owen would tolerate wearing one, anticipating that he would be likely to rip, or twist, or cut himself free, we considered but did not buy one. Until last night.

As I searched the internet for the right gizmo I found a great deal of information on wandering and locating. I learned that wandering is terribly common in people with autism (as people with Alzheimer’s) sometimes with terrible results. There were multiple cases reported of drowning deaths (yet again I blessed Mr. John of C.E.Rieg School who long ago taught Owen to swim). Deaths from exposure were reported, and multiple stories of searches. There were also stories of a mother being held accountable, charged with negligence after calling 911 for help (reason.com/blog/2015).

There are probably careless parents out there – but I think it is much more common that there are parents who are exhausted, doing their best, and don’t recognize the danger in a situation , don’t see all their options. I have been such a parent, and I have been judged for it. It’s an extremely painful experience for an overachiever – I highly recommend it for personal growth. Many wonderful, thoughtful, invested parents have made these mistakes. When we walk away from such a situation, in a cold sweat of relief, we know we are lucky. When we do not walk away, when our child is hurt or lost to us, we never completely recover.

This week a friend of mine had to take her son to an institution to be cared for, because he became too difficult for them to manage at home. I have not had a chance to talk to her yet, but the words she uses to write about it are painful poetry to me. Here is a link to her own words:

http://archive.aweber.com/marriagemoats/CaC3j/h/Marriage_Moats_How_Much_is.htm

Thinking of my friend Lori, I remember a shocking experience I had, many years ago. When speaking of her son and her challenges to another friend, that woman responded contemptuously, scornfully. That boy could not really be called autistic, she said, because his mother was really to blame for his condition. She told me of something that the mother ought to have done at her son’s birth or before (a shot? a test?) and the not-doing this thing had, in the speaker’s mind, been the cause of the boy’s condition. This was not a case for compassion, apparently. She saw stupidity, and knowing nothing of the situation intimately, she felt anger and laid blame. Perhaps this was her way of voicing her sense of helplessness – to control life’s frightening things. If someone is to blame then maybe there was a way to control it… to make bad things not happen…

What has been circling my head all this morning, to which I am applying my 52 years of wisdom, is the puzzle of judgment and criticism, and maybe luck, or knowledge. I have more than once listened to people (parents, women really) speak sneeringly of other mothers’ or fathers’ mistakes in a way that freezes my blood. I always identify with the ones called “stupid.” But today I saw that I make those kinds of impatient, contemptuous statements myself. For instance, when I see a small child walking or running behind their parent/s in the parking lot, the adult not holding the child’s hand. When parents have their kids out late at night at the stores, and then speak in an angry and ugly way to their whiny children. I am critical of things like that.

Obviously, Owen has more work to do on me. And we’ll order that location wristwatch device and hope Owen feels like wearing it.

https://www.autismspeaks.org/wandering-resources

Graduation – Anniversary Collage

July 14, 2015July 14, 2015wystansimonsLeave a comment

This July marks the one year anniversary of Owen’s graduation from St. Coletta School in Washington, DC

It hasn’t been an easy first year out of school, which makes me all the more grateful to the St. Coletta program and all that its faculty and staff offered us. Owen and I will both keep on learning!

Here are some mementos of the day–

Imported from Android Cellphone - 2015 281_crop — Waiting for the start–

Imported from Android Cellphone - 2015 290 — Glad to see Dad! but…

Owen doesn’t care for group photo shots —

Or any photos shots at all–

Unless he chooses them himself.

Still, we keep trying —

Imported from Android Cellphone - 2015 302 — Owen with his one-to-one Ciara and his teacher Paul

Imported from Android Cellphone - 2015 299 — Ciara and Owen had a bond. That doesn’t mean he’ll take a photo with her…

Happy anniversary of graduation, Owen!

The Language of Laughter – Owen and his dad

July 2, 2015July 2, 2015wystansimons4 Comments

Pretty early on Owen Edward Simons and his father Edward established a special bond. Its cornerstones are patience and humor. Owen’s dad is loooong on patience generally speaking, a trait he has had opportunity to develop during his years as father to a blended family of six with a ten year gap in the middle. That gap probably helped, but Owen is a master at teaching patience. For starters, as a fussy baby he spent hours hanging over his father’s burly forearm in the “colic grip,” secure and peaceful, the heel of Daddy’s hand strategically placed in his abdomen.

Edward chooses patience, most of the time, and approaches difficult things or people with a twinkle that generally unravels situations into smiles. He has a gift for optimism. He likes to see things and people for their potential. He says he figures we have a guaranteed angel in the household, and even when Owen isn’t acting much like an angel that thought seems to center him.

Owen at play_crop — Thespians at a school play

Long ago Owen’s dad realized that Owen loves and responds better to funny voices or accents, and so when he talks to Owen he rarely wastes time with an everyday voice. He has a particular voice for Owen – “He’s a little gerky guy!” “Hello big fella!” “Owee! what if a big shark was coming to get cha’?!” And Owen’s dad taught Owen’s mom how to turn the frustratingly slow efforts at communication into something funny, instead. How to get a waked up face for her efforts, instead of a blotto one. Turns out laughter is really Owen’s best language.

I remember Edward wrestling and tickling Owen on the lawn when they both were a lot younger – one of Edward’s ways of letting off the parenting stress I suspect. Sometimes I wasn’t so sure about the rough play, how it felt from Owen’s point of view. I have come to know that the worst thing in Owen’s world is to be tuned out – which tends to be my survival mechanism. Being squished into the lawn and tickled into squeals is great stimulation, a lot better than being ignored.

Imported from Android Cellphone - 2015 312_crop — Graduation 2014

One evening years ago after getting all the kids in bed Edward and I watched a rented 1995 movie, “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” both of us moved to tears. Mr. Holland in the movie is a successful and creative music teacher to high school students, also a composer, who struggles to relate to his deaf son’s music-less world. In the darkened foyer on our way up to bed after the movie, Edward and I sobbed on each other’s shoulders, and my husband confessed some things that I would never have guessed. He told me about his sadness about Owen, and he whispered his shame for past feelings of embarrassment about Owen, that it was his mentally challenged son who shared his own name. It was a very honest and powerful moment to share.

But most moments are not powerful like that, not epiphanies, nor beautiful dreams of future angels. Most moments made of the steady day to day of washing and meal getting. Although Owen’s mom and dad may not agree about how everything gets done, Owen can always count on his dad to be there, dressing him for his day (“Ouch – honey? do those greens go together?”), making sure he gets his nutrition, spoonful by spoonful (“Edward! he can feed himself!”), helping him change clothes one more time (“Thank you!!”). Owen’s dad’s special undertaking is directing him through a job, like clearing the supper table, item by item. “Look, here’s a dish, Owen. Take it to da kitchen. Ok, come back. Now get another one…take it to da kitchen. Ok Owen, now this one…” Owen’s dad is the rock of the family, calm and emotionally present — except when a little nap takes him away for a peaceful moment’s rest, or he tunes us all out for some Facebook time…

So although Owen’s mom may gag over Owen’s dad’s fashion sense, and object to his tendency to spoon feeding, she and Owen are very grateful for Owen’s dad. Lucky boy, really. Blessed with a dad who understands laughter.

140_crop — Pick up time after two weeks at camp

Trailer for Mr Holland’s Opus – http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113862/

Little Brother

June 20, 2015June 20, 2015wystansimons5 Comments

Last week, Owen’s little brother graduated out of the little local school close to our home. Oskar gave a graduation speech, and Owen listened to it without being the least bit disruptive.

The morning before, I paused in the midst of the frantic activity of school play and graduation preparations to look back – although looking back is usually painful (“Nostalgia is a trap,” my mom once told me). I could see old photos in my mind – though of course I cannot locate them — for instance a family outing to Great Falls, Owen “woozling” the top of Oskar’s head with his cheek, an arm wrapped around tightly around his cranium, Osk’s face in Owen’s armpit. That cranium is far beyond armpit level now

When Oskar was born, Owen spoke of him in sentences: “He’s a wittle piñata.” How things have changed!…

IMPORTED FROM ANDROID CELLPHONE - 2015 318_crop — At Owen’s graduation July 2014

Making and Unmaking Beds

May 4, 2015May 4, 2015wystansimons2 Comments

This April post was delayed a week. My sincere apologies.

It is 5 am. Because a thump noise or two woke me, I am stumbling down the dim-dark hall to see what’s up with Owen. His door is shut, but light streams out from underneath it. Well, good, at least he’s not in the kitchen. Open the door, and there he is in all his glory, naked, seated on the rug, and sifting through the contents of the huge rolling drawer under his bed, stuffed with bits of his past and present treasures.

Owen generally strips in the mornings, and generally strips his bed as well, and the pile of bed linens and night clothing he throws off mounds up behind the headboard, wet, dry, and in-between all mixed together. And so most mornings start with a sorting and hanging-up-to-air-out ritual, with Owen helping. After all these years, and much as he likes routine, Owen still seems uncertain what the criteria are for which thing goes where. He hesitates, dangling a dipe nervously over the trash can, so I curb my impatience and direct him. THESE things go to the laundry, THESE things to the trash, and THOSE things we hang up. Owen hauls the wet away to the laundry, while I pull up the window shade to let rays of early sunshine beat in upon on the mattress and blankets. Then we hurry on to the bath or shower.

I like things better at the other end of the day, when it’s time to make up beds again. Laying down the mattress protector and tucking in a fresh, sweet smelling sheet is a job I never grow tired of, although my back does. It’s satisfying to build Owen a nest. I wish other parts of providing for him were as straightforward as this one.

Before I know it, the cycle will begin again, the stripping and then washing, the airing, the drying, the remaking. Repetitive tasks are seen in our culture as tedious, but they can also be calming. They have a rhythm and an inevitability, a cycle as continuous as ocean waves. Perhaps my mind makes this association because of the recorded waves we play on Owen’s sound machine at night. It’s as if my bed-making arms were the waves, rolling out, rolling in. Pull, drag, dump; pull, carry, hang; pull, fold, and tuck…

As I settle Owen for the night, I am reminded of something I read once in a parent newsletter written by Jon Shestack, father of Dov, a rather famous young man with autism (Strange Son, by Portia Iverson). Shestack described being uncomfortable with his profoundly disabled and agitated son when he was awake, but loving to sit with him and watch him sleep. Then the troubled face was beautiful, the tense body relaxed. Then, finally, he could hold his son in his arms.

There is Owen, all curled up in the covers of a freshly made bed, safe, warm, and relaxed. He has had his prayers and his kisses. I know he is happy – Owen loves to go to bed. For the moment, there is nothing more I “should” be doing to care for him. Well, ok, launder some socks and undies maybe. But until he rips those sheets off again, his restless spirit has everything it needs in a nest of clean linen.

Chow Hound!

April 21, 2015wystansimonsLeave a comment

Owen choosing broccoli over chocolate cake as a little boy

Owen is always hungry. At least, he pretty much never turns down food. He will not eat asparagus these days, and he doesn’t like eggs too much. True he picks the onions out of any dish that they are pick-out-able and leaves them in a pile on the plate. But that’s about it.

As a little guy seated in the front of the grocery cart, I remember Owen reeeeaching down behind him into the cart to grab the broccoli up and gnaw on it as we shopped. What could I say?

Nowadays, he will eat an entire extra-large bag of pears from BJs Wholesale Club in a couple hours if I don’t hide some of them first.

Is he really hungry? Or is this a behavior? Boredom? Some version of sensory under-stimulation that causes him to eat and eat, as if he can’t tell what full feels like?

Another possibility could be that his “Specific Carbohydrate Diet,” (click to read more: http://www.breakingtheviciouscycle.info/), somewhat similar to that trendy word “Paleo,” means that he needs to eat more to replace those filling grains he isn’t eating. I know while I tried eating with Owen for a while the lack of grain bulk left me kind of empty.

Last Friday we had a party at our house that left behind part of a massive chocolate cake. I stored the leftovers for Sunday church refreshments. I didn’t realize that Owen had been raiding the fridge until Sunday morning when I discovered crumbs and a diminished under the foil cover. There will be hell to pay this week, I expect, as the problem sugar/starch molecules work their way out of his system. Carbohydrates like that affects Owen’s mood, and gums up his ability to communicate as it also gums up his bowel. His face is less expressive. Oh – and he didn’t want to eat much all day Sunday.

But I believe in a period of “carnival” now and then. We all do it. Why not Owen too? For one thing, I am hoping he will develop awareness of what feels better – as I hope for the sensitive-systemed eaters in my care. Don’t laugh. Remember this is the kid who chewed on the broccoli tree instead of the chocolate castle cake, long before his SCD Diet began.

This recent fridge raiding reminds me that increasingly Owen notices what he isn’t getting. And after getting mad at him for getting into what I have been sneaking myself ever since Friday – sugar in all it varied forms – I know that it is time for a shift. Owen is 21. He is not a little boy anymore. True, he will always need support, and to be prevented from eating stuff off the floor, or emptying the fridge of its contents entirely at will. But he needs some “self-serve” options. I determined that will set up that snack cupboard that I have been intending to set up for him, one that he can get to from OUTSIDE the kitchen.

And now that the party cake and candy are gone (what a shock for my kitchen raider early Monday morning!) we will all have to cope with the intense sugar cravings and frenzy that happens to all of us here at the Simonses’ when we have strayed.

Sigh. Could go for a piece of that chocolate cake right now…

IMG_0234_crop — The new Owen snack cupboard — the trick will be keeping it stocked…

Spring forward!

April 14, 2015April 14, 2015wystansimons4 Comments

Owen takes this directive seriously. When the clocks change and Mom begins to drag him from bed an hour earlier, it unsettles him (I think) and he responds by waking even another hour earlier.

At 5am (formerly known as 4) he can be found in the hallway, in the bathroom, in the kitchen rattling through the recycle bin.

Why?

Someone told me once that if I asked “why?” there would always be someone else wondering the same thing, who would be glad I did. No such thing as a stupid question. I doubt this.

As the weeks march on into spring, the birds waken earlier, presumably to keep Owen and me company. The mice make noises in the walls that I didn’t hear before – or do they? Do I imagine it? what IS that sound? I find myself jumping from the bed covers and standing poised in the darkened hallway about oh 4:30 or so, straining for the sound that woke me. As if I had become one of the crazy aunts James Thurber writes of in My Life and Hard Times –- “Hark!”

Luckily Edward sleeps pretty much like one of Thurber’s uncles, rumbling along peacefully under the soothing influence of the sleep apnea machine. Am I waking because Owen is awake? Are we that psychically connected? Or am I waking him up – because we are psychically connected??

Are we psychically connected?

Springing forward with the tweeting birds and chewing mice (squirrels? bats?) and wandering Owen leaves me rattled at this time of year. Luckily I can and do visit my doctor for some gentle homeopathic remedy to break the cycle of madness. I will be able to sleep again, and so will Owen. We will adjust. But – wouldn’t it be easier if we left the clocks alone?

I do seem prone to these sorts of questions.

Instead, our government intervenes, changing the time of Owen’s meals, changing his rising time, his sleeping time, and therefore his body chemistry and digestive patterns. And, because they cannot understand why it works, it appears they may now prevent our access to the homeopathy, this gentle energy medicine that helps him cope with their intervention, and helps us to cope with him.

Spring forward indeed!

Innocence and a Mustard Pot

April 9, 2015April 9, 2015wystansimonsLeave a comment

This week’s post is late. I have been frozen it seems by incoming very terrible and incoming very wonderful news (one the entwined deaths of a couple I never knew, the other birth of a grand-niece). I feel like a snake after a huge meal, overwhelmed by what I have taken in, passive and digesting. I wonder if this is how Owen feels on a holiday weekend, with all the positive and the disruptive stimulus. But the holiday is over, and his mom is still blank, adrift on facebook, not getting supper on the table on time.

Bad news makes the presence of innocence more noticeable. Contrast intensifies our appreciation. Owee woozlings (when Owen lays his face on someone’s neck or shoulder) have increased value. Owen isn’t easy, but he is gentle and pretty sweet even when he is chewing up plastic tomato pots or cutting my cellphone charger cord in two.

Over Easter weekend a dear friend sent me a Wall Street Journal article that I share with you here. Please enjoy a peek into another world, captured here by Sohrab Ahmari, in his interview of Jean Vanier, a remarkable, gentle man, and founder of The Ferns (in Paris), and L’Arche movement worldwide.

“The men bought a trick mustard pot with a spring in the lid that would jump out when opened. ‘Raphael, he loved that,’ Mr. Vanier recalls. One day a state inspector visited the house, and Raphael ‘would push the mustard pot, inch it forward toward the inspector, and he finally opened it—and there was laughter! That was at the heart of everything…’ “

– Sohrab Ahmari, The Gift of Living With the Not Gifted. (Wallstreet Journal, April 3, 2015). http://on.wsj.com/1BYKdBb

Owen Meets “The Revolutionary”

March 31, 2015March 31, 2015wystansimons3 Comments

Last night Owen went to see a show of student artworks. Sculptures. He loved it.

This piece is called “The Revolutionary” – a young head on an old body. The only bad part was not being able to touch them. Even standing too close is frowned on in the art world, let alone hovering and patting.

Unless the artist in question is your sister Bronwyn.

Owen, always a restless fellow, inclined to sudden pirouetting and wanting to touch or retrieve items, or straighten them out, can be a stressful person to take into a museum environment. But last night he was pretty calm, and it felt right for him to be there with us.

Still, I wondered, as we drove home. It was Bronwyn’s first show. Was this for her yet another time when Owen’s needs dominated the family scene, distracting mom and dad’s attention? They do, even on a good day. You can love someone and still feel conflicted.

So after we had come home, I texted her to acknowledge that.

“I feel the exact opposite of a loss,” she texted back. “I’ve always privately bonded with [Owen] over the way we like to touch material. I think we’re both very sculptural, and I was thinking about the way he touches faces when I was building mine…”

You’re a pretty lucky guy, Owen Simons.