It’s 64 degrees out today. In April. In Minnesota.
The pool is set at 80 degrees.
We opened it this weekend.
Our second son Sawyer has had multiple friends over to play.
They jump. They shoot hoops. They talk baseball and hockey and Fortnite and girls.
Our third son Harbor doesn’t leave their side. Not even for a second. He is a shadow to these older boys.
I listen. And read. And smile. And referee. And judge jumps.
And Cooper, my oldest, he is right there with them.
He signs swim. And points.
He stays in the pool the whole entire time with the other boys.
I don’t know if he understands what they are saying. Or the rules to the games they play.
He has never once tried to join in.
He just orbits them. Near but far.
We explain nonspeaking autism to all of Sawyer’s friends. We don’t whisper about it. We live autism out loud here. We welcome the questions too. Because that’s how others learn.
Every so often Cooper splashes too much. Or throws everything out of the pool. Or everything in.
It drives the boys bonkers.
He reminds me so much of a younger brother. But he’s not. He’s actually older. He’s a teenager.
I pause sometimes. And acknowledge what could have been. What should have been. I let it wash over me. I feel all of the feelings.
And then smile. At what is.
I prayed for these moments. These seemingly simple mundane moments.
Brothers and friends. Together.
