Welcome to the family, Matthias.
The only child missing from these pictures is my oldest. I asked him if he’d be willing to pose with Matthias for a picture, and he replied, “No thanks, Mom. I don’t need to see that.” (If you know him, then you’ll know why this strikes me as funny.)
This is a happy story.
Our autistic eleven-year-old son and I have had a years-long ongoing battle over lights. Not every evening, but often enough, he will go through the house and turn off the lamps so that he can sit in the dark. Meanwhile, the other six people in the house prefer the lights on. Cue the battle and echolalia script to convince him to turn lamps back on—at least a few of them.
As I write this, it’s 6:30 a.m and he has been up for a while. Not long ago, he came into our bedroom with a, “Mom! Mom! Can you get up now?”
“Sure.”
I eased my thirty-eight week, grand multipara geriatric pregnant self from the bed as he rushed me along, and I followed him downstairs. I waddled into the living room to discover that every. single. light. in the house was on, including random ones like the wall sconces.
He waved his hand around the room. “I turned on the lights!”
Immediately I understood why he wanted me to come downstairs. I pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheek. (He always resists physical affection, but I did it anyway.) “Yes, I see. This is very thoughtful of you.”
He said a bit more about the process of turning on the lights, and which lights. Then he said, “Today is April 9th!”
“Yes.”
“And it’s Saturday!”
“Yes.”
“And you know what that means?”
I did, but I went through the Q-and-A anyway. “What does that mean, Ben?”
“It’s your birthday!”
He turned on the lights for my birthday.
Best birthday gift ever.
Throwback to 2019: an early version of what is now In Pieces, with the best review the book (any book) could receive:
Shakespeare I am not. I do not pretend to write anything more than the best story I can manage with the limited skills God has given me. But I am comforted in knowing that the kids are rooting for me. A happy thought as I settle in and begin tonight's writing session.
“You have five young children at home. How on God’s green earth are you finding time to write novels? In 2020, no less!”
People often ask me this question. Those of you who have visited Casa Ortiz understand exactly why. We have a loud and rambunctious crew and some challenging family dynamics, owing to children with special needs. And now they are home. All the time.
Actual footage.
“How are you finding time to work?” is a fair question.
I can rattle off the usual responses: supportive spouse, outside help, limited hobbies, coffee, Disney/Pixar, low housekeeping expectations, proper psychiatric care, and stubborn determination. How does anyone find time to do anything? Like most writers, I work around the edges.
But my real secret to getting work done?
Answer: Two stanzas from a prayer by St. Thomas Aquinas.
Grant that I may
never crave to do things impulsively,
nor disdain to do what is burdensome,Lest I begin things before I should
or abandon them before finishing.(St. Thomas Aquinas, “To Acquire the Virtues,” from The Aquinas Prayer Book.)
Writing is both a natural fit and a vocation. I’m intuitive, sensitive, idealistic, artistic, and analytical—all good traits for a storyteller to have. The hours I spend writing, alone and in silence, feel like mere minutes. But I’m also impulsive. I often overcommit myself. I hyperfocus on fun tasks but cannot stay focused on boring ones. Sometimes I’m so lost in thought, I forget to type. (Can you tell I have ADHD?) I overthink things, I panic, I procrastinate, I wallow in discouragement, and sometimes I fail to finish what I’ve set out to do.
In order to write, I have to do battle with myself.
Some days I win. Some days I lose.
I pray St. Thomas’ words often.
God answers.
All is grace. That’s my secret.
She's a pistol: My friend Jenny once used this phrase to describe her daughter, a bright and opinionated big sister and social butterfly. At the time I thought I understood what she meant. But back then I saw dimly, as through a mirror. Now, I see face to face. I have seen the εἶδος, the Form of Pistol. I was blind, but now I see.
Do you know the nursery rhyme There was a little girl by Longfellow?
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.
That's my daughter. I was telling my husband the other day that it's a good thing she was an angel baby and that we bonded early. Otherwise she wouldn't make it to her third birthday.
Human development is a strange mystery. So is human personality. We didn't experience a typical two-year-old phase with our oldest, who has autism. Also, despite his tantrums due to his limited ability to communicate, he's an easygoing, compliant kid. His sister, however, has a lot more spunk and vivacity. She also has zero problems communicating. As my husband said, "Autism's looking pretty good, isn't it?"
I struggle with scrupulosity, especially as a parent. Underneath my day-to-day parenting decisions is a deep-seated fear that no matter what I do, I'm going to screw up these kids.
It's hard to surrender fear about my kids because I love them. They are the fruit of our marriage and of my womb. They've stolen my brain cells. They're mine.
But both human development and personality prove that, ultimately, my children aren't mine. They are unique; I can't fashion them into what they are not. I can only shepherd them, and even then I have to allow enough space so they can exercise their will: room to try, room to make mistakes, room to sin and repent, room to succeed and grow, room to discover in what particular ways they are the image and likeness of God.
God promises me a spirit of freedom when I have faith in him, when I remember that He's in control, not me. My parenting fears and scruples are futile. God instead offers me an alternative: peace. Thanks be for that.
