15 Years Ago in Manhattan

December 2002

December 2017

Fifteen years ago, pregnant me was flying through midtown Manhattan with a nervous Ed and an even more nervous taxi driver. I was too busy trying to avoid a taxi cab birth and the inevitably awkward local television news appearance to be scared. The cabbie won, and Noé was delivered inside NYU Medical Center six weeks short of his due date. Little did I know we would soon face much bigger problems than how to tame all that beautiful black baby hair. The last fifteen years? Unbelievably difficult and unbelievably wonderful. Noé's autism has changed the trajectory of our family. Our capacity for love and compassion has been stretched beyond former recognition. We want for very little besides a secure and happy future for him (and maybe some better sleep). 

Happy 15th Birthday, Noécito!

Sidenote: He blew out his candles this year!

Thirteen

Thirteen is all legs and heart, with a dash of moodiness.

Thirteen is keeping a safe distance from your parents in public, but asking to snuggle after a tough middle school day.

Thirteen is taking advanced math, but walking half-way to school without your backpack.

Thirteen is when you finally learn your father's native tongue because your Spanish teacher looks like Miss Venezuela.

Thirteen is eating a full dinner with the family and then promptly going to the kitchen for three bowls of cereal.

Thirteen is calling puberty a "monster that is sucking away my childhood."

Thirteen is pounding on the piano for hours because there are just too many emotions.

Thirteen is alternating between being proud of your older brother with autism and being completely frustrated with him.

Thirteen is texting, jazz band, sleeping in, discovering girls, track meets, drawing in secret, Instagram, and STEM Club.

Thirteen may kill me.