An ode to my neurodivergent son
by Ems Hudson
the one sock
He wakes up with a plan.
Today will be a good day.
There are things to do
adventures to have
important matters to investigate.
Then he puts on his socks.
And the universe falls apart.
Something is wrong.
He doesn't know how to explain it
but he knows
with the certainty of a scientist
discovering a new planet
that this sock is absolutely unacceptable.
The seam is touching his toe.
Not that toe.
The OTHER toe.
The fabric is bunched up
by approximately half a millimetre
and apparently someone needs to answer for this.
He pulls it off.
Tries again.
Pulls it off.
Turns it inside out.
Stares at it.
As if the sock might have the decency
to fix itself.
It does not.
His voice gets louder
his face gets redder
his little feet are staging a revolution.
And somewhere in the middle of all this
there is a very important little boy
trying to make sense of a world
that sometimes feels much too scratchy
too loud
too tight
too everything.
He knows what he likes.
He knows what he doesn't.
He has opinions that could bring down governments
and a determination that could move mountains.
He can remember the tiniest detail
notice the smallest change
and spot a suspicious sock
before it has even left the drawer.
Eventually he finds it.
The one.
The sock that feels right.
He pulls it on
wiggles his toes
and gives a little nod.
Approved.
Crisis over.
The world is beautiful again.
Until he looks at the other foot.
His eyes narrow.
His head tilts.
A terrible realisation.
THE SOCKS DON'T MATCH HOW THEY FEEL.
And honestly
whoever invented socks
has a lot to answer for.
But here's the thing about this boy.
He isn't too much.
His world just comes with the volume turned up.
And somewhere between the sock investigations
the enormous feelings
the brilliant little observations
and the things that make him wonderfully him
there is a boy who deserves a world
that tries a little harder
to understand his.
Published on the Writory Wall.