Neurodiversity, Frat Boys, and Letting Go

My son’s label didn’t change who he is — it changed me

This is a photo of Jack, sitting, smiling, and probably about to say, “Sup?”

I’m typing this crosslegged from my kitchen table, wine beside me and dinner on the stove. To my left: my oldest son’s abandoned math binder, open to the Unit 1, Lesson 18 homework on finding the area of a cube. Carter and numbers don’t mix, so this is us most afternoons. On my right: a window, and through that window, all four of my children playing outside with the neighbor kids. The twins are on the swings — still in their ballet leotards and tights, Carter is making up wrestling moves on the trampoline, and Jack is orchestrating a backyard soccer game.

My eyes are on Jack.

This season, Jack is six and a half. Right now, he’s my only kid who doesn’t need help with his math homework. He’s ahead in reading, too (though we’re working on recall and comprehension). He loves school, especially when his teacher lets the class read under their desks with flashlights.

Out of the four of my kids, Jack makes friends most easily. He’s been enrolled in school for a month, and he’s already assembled a neighborhood gang of six other kids that meet up daily to ride bikes, scooter, jump on trampolines, and eat all my snacks. He has a “crush on two girls” at school, and has already scored an invite to his classmate’s…