My youngest son, Oliver, is certainly full of life. “Full of life” is the polite way to put it; in reality, he is wild.
Wild. That word captures everything about him, precisely as defined:
wild: /wīld/ adjective
1. (of an animal or plant) existing or growing in the natural environment; not tamed or cultivated.
2. uncontrolled or unrestrained, especially in pursuit of enjoyment.
Oliver embodies all of this: untamed, unrestrained, and full of energy. And as you might guess, this makes me perpetually exhausted.
Oliver’s vibrant spirit emerged during a turbulent time at the end of my first marriage. He was born to two weary parents who were desperately trying to hold a fraying family together as our world fell apart. He would often snuggle between me and my ex-husband, a comforting presence that widened the gap between us. I welcomed him into our bed, not just because he was my last baby, but also because his presence brought a sense of warmth that helped mask the distance growing in our relationship.
From the start, he seemed to demand more than what was offered. I noticed his restlessness and how his fists would clench in frustration while waiting to be fed or held. The sounds he made while eating were primal, almost desperate. He always seemed to yearn for more — more hugs, more food, more everything. I wanted him to learn to self-soothe, to find comfort in his own little world, but the reality of juggling a rocky marriage and other children often led me to give in, just to find a moment’s peace.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible for his wildness. I thought that perhaps by catering to his every need, I had spoiled him, preserving a bond rooted in my own grief for the end of my marriage. Instead of addressing the issues between his father and me, we lay there in the dark, a family brought together by love but separated by circumstance.
Eventually, my marriage came to an end, but Oliver’s wild spirit only intensified as he grew. He is strong, sweet, and undeniably kind, but words like “gentle” and “calm” are foreign to him.
He often leaves a trail of chaos in his wake. I found myself repeating the same phrases like a broken record: “Please don’t jump on the couch,” “You need to sit when you eat,” “Close the door!” “Where are your shoes?” “Why are your socks wet?” The endless cycle left me hoarse and my furniture in disrepair.
At first, I believed his wildness was contained within our home until notes from school began to arrive. “Oliver is a sweet child but struggles with sitting still.” Another note read, “He’s very kind but has trouble keeping his hands to himself.” I could easily picture him at school, devouring his snacks and rolling around like a playful otter.
“Oh, Oliver,” I sighed, wrapping my arms around him. “You have to stay in your seat in class. Remember, you can look with your eyes, not your hands.” He’d nuzzle into me and reply, “I know, Mama. I try.”
Convincing him to go to school was sometimes a challenge. “What do you do all day, Mama?” he would ponder aloud, raising my anxiety levels. I feared he might one day escape school like a clever little monkey. Each day he returned home, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
This cycle of worry and relief was a testament to the love I have for my spirited child.
At night, Oliver always requested to be tucked in last. After saying goodnight to his brothers, I would squeeze into his twin bed, which was overflowing with stuffed animals, toys, and remnants of his adventures. There was barely room for both of us, but nestled beside him, I often found myself drifting off as the familiar sound of his breathing soothed me.
As time passes, I find myself torn between wanting to tame my wild child and admiring his freedom. His spirit makes him vulnerable but also opens doors to a vast world. He loves fiercely, learning to bounce back from every fall. He dances to his own unique rhythm, unfazed by the expectations of others.
He’s still young, and though it’s challenging, we’re taking it one day at a time. There’s still time to help him find balance, but for now, I’m learning to appreciate the wildness that makes him who he is.
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