My Amazing Ashton

The other day I had the opportunity to direct our elementary school’s talent show.  I’m not very good at being in charge of things, so this was kind of a source of  stress for me–the ominous dreams at night, can’t concentrate on anything else, heart racing, ugly sweat inducing kind of stress.  I don’t love it.  As kids and parents began to swarm into the gym minutes before starting time, I could feel the panic begin to set in too.  But once the Principal started in with the welcome script, I knew there was no turning back.  I purposely put myself at the curtain, not only to be in a good position to help the kids, but to avoid being seen by anyone who would recognize my obvious lack of competency.  For the first six or seven minutes of the show I was too preoccupied to really notice the kids’ actual performances.  I was too focused on making sure everyone was where they needed to be, worrying about sound, and concentrating on pulling the curtain at the correct times.

But then came the Hula Hoop act, and suddenly everything changed.

A sweet little boy in clothes appearing to have been picked out by himself, proudly took the stage with a sun bleached, slightly misshapen hula hoop.  I opened the curtain with a swoosh, and to the cue of Imagine Dragons he began an unchoreographed display of his very best tricks.  As I watched his earnestness and his sheer determination, I felt a wave of admiration and love wash over me and seep into every inch of my mother heart.  I was close enough to this boy to see the nervous twitches in his face and the glisten of hope in his eyes, as if his enormous spirit and his will to succeed and be praised was in an intense battle with his natural fear of rejection and failure.  Every revolution of that hoop was powered by an intrepidity and credulity that was completely adorable and inspiring at the same time.  As his act continued, I stood mesmerized as I watched him calmly chase after his escaping hoop before it rolled down to the audience and then resume his dutifully practiced performance utterly undaunted.

It was so moving to me that it brought tears to my eyes and for a moment, that little boy was not simply another student in a two minute time slot.  He was mine.  And so were the next two little girls who performed a dance duet.  And the 6th grade boy after that who played electric guitar.  And every child who I had the privilege to watch as I witnessed not just talent, but a sort of courage and confidence take the stage that I can only dream of someday possessing.

I don’t know why as we grow up so many of us allow the world to beat us down, believing the negative voices and rejecting the divine inside of us.  Somehow that inner cheerleader that used to reside in our minds when we were little turns hostile and nasty as we pay more attention to the world outside of us.  It’s quite sad, really. How I wish we could all be a little more like children in this regard, oblivious to the cruelty of critics and ever fearless in our approach to life.

Neither of my grade school boys participated in the talent show.  Their current strengths aren’t very conducive to a stage presentation.  But our school recently held another event where the same kind of determination and bravery was manifest by students, though a bit more inconspicuously.  Every year we hold a Walk-a-thon in order to raise funds for a particular school need. Kids are given about an hour and fifteen minutes to walk or run as many laps as they can.  And every year, there is a wide variety of styles represented in this challenge.  There are the little girls who just use the time chatting away and holding hands, having a tremendous time and only completing about eight laps.  There are the football players/6th grade tough guys who start out in a sprint and then slowly peter out after a few minutes, finally finishing up with about 15-20 laps.  Of course there are dozens of other approaches to the 75 minutes of compelled physical activity.  And then there are the maybe 5% of kids out the entire school who want to actually win the Walk-a-thon.  These students begin the run at a comfortable pace, increasing their speed as time ticks on, and finish the “race” (because that’s what it is to them) giving 100%, absolutely all they’ve got until the very last second they are allowed to run.

My 5th grader was one of those.

Last year he came within 4 laps of winning the grand prize of a Kindle Fire. This year he was determined to beat everybody.

His drive to succeed astounds me.

And guess what?

He won.

My Ashton got 28 laps.  Seven miles.  He was amazing.

But I had to laugh inside when he came home with the news that he got the most laps:

“Mom!  Mom, guess what?! I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  The good news is, I got the most laps in the whole school!  I won!”

“That’s awesome,” I responded  excitedly.  “Good for you!  You did it.  You’re amazing! What’s the bad news then?”

With a hint of sarcasm he replied, “My prize!  My prize is…coupons!”

He was so disappointed.  He finally won the Walk-a-thon and he got…coupons.

However, it was clear to me that my boy didn’t really need a prize at all.  He had just accomplished something incredible and he felt awesome.  This mom could not have been more pleased.  Ashton doesn’t get moments like this too often, so for him–and for me–this was golden.

My Ashton really is awesome.  He has challenges I never had to face, problems that when I was his age I never knew existed.  And he just keeps fighting.  Sometimes he gets discouraged at the differences he sees in himself compared to his classmates.  He notices that he doesn’t often get invited to birthday parties or get picked to be on teams at recess.  He can sense when other kids would prefer not being around him when he forgets to take his medicine.  Every now and then we have long, crying talks at night when this discouragement becomes  too much for his sweet soul to handle. He wants so badly to be free from this burden.  But he knows he won’t ever be.  So he keeps fighting.  He tries hard to notice the positive feedback of friends, the real ones who don’t recoil when he gets a little hyperactive.  He makes adjustments to his life according to his strengths, but doesn’t give up on his weaknesses.  And he tries to live in a way undefined by his ADHD.  Because he is so much more than his limitations.

Ashton thinks deeply, more than any of my other children.  He asks question with a real desire to understand, and surface answers won’t suffice for him.  He is resilient, competitive, and driven, but also soft, sensitive, and sweet.  He has unbelievably high expectations for himself and an indefatigable spirit to match them.  No one tries harder, reaches higher, or loves stronger than my Ashton.

It is remarkable how much we learn from our children.  Though we are supposed to be the ones teaching them, more often than not they are teaching us so much more.  Like the kids in the talent show, Ashton is teaching me how to forge on through difficulty, how to resist the negative voices of the world, and how to wonder and inquire and aspire to things and ideas much grander than the current limits of my adult mind.  What an honor it is to be his mother.

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