“Don’t worry. He’ll do it. Ms. Alivia [Thorin’s dance teacher] has a 100 percent success rate with recitals.”
I gave her the check for his costume and hoped for the best.
The day of the dance recital arrived. And as predicted, Thorin participated in the performance in front of 200 people. He had on black slacks, a brilliant white shirt, a black vest with shiny sequins, and a pink bow tie. He’d asked to get his hair cut a few days before; it was very short and stylish. When he walked out on the stage, he looked taller than I had remembered. His head and chin were pointed up, his shoulders squared. I saw how composed he was. Thorin stopped to give a quick wave to Ward and me. Then, his focus shifted to the audience as a whole. He glowed. It was then I saw he was not doing this for us—it was for himself. For all those months, he had prepared to perform something he loved doing.
I was used to Thorin’s Avenger inspired tales, such as “Hulk is at the library with the Baby Avengers. He eats the books and some people. The woman says ‘Shhhhh!’ and ‘Quiet!’” But one day, he told me a violent story that I actually wanted to edit. We started the usual way.
“Okay, have you thought of characters?
It took a minute, then he said, “A Baby Robot Teacher.”
“That’s specific. What’s the name?”
He thought for a moment more, “Um…Kicky Waters. Cries a lot.”
“Kicky Waters cries a lot?”
“Yes.” He had moved on from “yesith.”
“Then what happens?”
“At school. Stab ten red chickens. Died.”
“What?” I was horrified.
“Died. Wear glasses.”
“Wait. Who’s wearing glasses?” I was trying to keep up with his story.
“Chickens.”
“Kicky Waters stabbed the chickens?”
“Yes! Girls and boys saw. Screamed!”
I bet they did.
“This is a horrible story.”
“Yeah. Chickens zombies now.”
“The chickens turned into zombies?”
“Yeah. They eat mother.”
“Who ate the mother?”
“Zombie chickens.”
“Could it be ‘They ate humans’ rather than ‘They ate the mother’?” I was starting to take this personally.
“No! Not!” Thorin replied insistently.
Later, Thorin told the story to Bubba.
“Just one mother?” she asked.
“Yes, one,” he said.
“Who is the mother?” she asked.
Thorin pointed at me.
“Oh, Thorin, you don’t really want zombie chickens to eat your mother, do you?” she asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Thorin, if they ate your mommy who would drive you all over town?”
I wanted to think I had more to offer than transportation, but at least she was trying to keep me alive.
“Chickens,” he said followed by obnoxiously accurate chewing noises.
Thorin went off to play.
“He’s imaginative,” my mom said.
“I hope that’s what it is.”
I put out a Facebook post asking for parental feedback. The best answer was from a friend who taught literature and was also a mother: “Stories and imagination are the places they get to transgress with impunity. Let him go!” So I did. I wrote up the story, and we used it as part of his reading. To go with his story, Thorin drew a robot, a zombie chicken, and me.
As our first year of unschooling came to end, I took Thorin to his favorite Mexican restaurant for our end-of-the-school-year celebration lunch. He and I hadn’t talked much about his last year of public school, but it seemed like a good opportunity to open the door.
“Thorin, do you miss going to school?”
“I miss Walt,” told me mournfully.
“I know, me too. But, not school?”
“Not school,” he said.
“I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think of your first grade teacher’s name.” I had developed a block when it came to her.
Thorin kept his head down eating.
“Thorin, I can see her plain as day, what’s her name?”
“Kicky Waters,” he said.
My heart sank. “Oh, no! Really?”
“Yes.”
While I was taking in what he said, I remembered her name.
“Mrs. Bruce! She’s Baby Robot Teacher, Kicky Waters?”
“Yes!” he said unequivocally.
“Can I ask one more question?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Last year, I asked if you knew what the problem was at school. You said, ‘I do. It’s me.’”
Thorin nodded his head.
“Do you still think that’s true?” I asked.
“No.” His voice was strong. I believed him.
“You know it’s them?”
“Yes,” he said smiling.
“We should have left school earlier.” Remorse filled my voice.
“Yes.”
“Daddy and I are so sorry, you know that, right?” I felt horrible.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No, it’s not. Thorin, what did you think about in school? How did you do it, Thorin?”
“King of Asgard.”
“The King of Asgard?”
“Odin’s son, King of Asgard.”
“You were Thor? That’s how you did it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Thorin, brilliant!” I willed myself to hold back tears. Thorin was not upset. This moment was not about me but about him.
He smiled.
We continued silently enjoying our food. I felt a wave inside me take me back to the previous year, creating the Pictello presentation for class: Thorin insisting on dressing as Thor and then looking into the camera to say, “I am Thor.” Sitting in the restaurant with Thorin, I placed my hands on the table to ground myself, the same as I did the day I met him. Thorin had told his classmates, whether they understood or not, that he was powerful. My son is powerful; the thumping in my heart made it true.
I fell further into past memories to the day I told Thorin he had Down syndrome. I had feared for him. I wanted to protect him. I knew him well enough to know I must tell him he had super powers like the Avengers he loved. Together they are invincible, just like our family.
I’m back to the present again. I have stopped eating. I look at Thorin, his size belittling the multitudes he contains. Whitman is whispering.
I fall back to the day Ward suggested the blog be called Thunder Boy, based on Thorin’s
