Finn and turning Eight

November 19, 2025

Finn and turning Eight

When Finn was born he didn’t open his eyes. Not for the whole of his first day; world so bright he had to brace against it.

It seems metaphorical to how he exists in this moment in time. Eight years old and life itself still floods in, overwhelming his senses. Finn will brace himself against his discomfort with a crazed energy.

Like treading water, where the only way to not drown is to constantly force the water to react to your touch, propelling you. When overwhelmed Finn pushes back with his own chaos to stay afloat. At least that is my most generous interpretation for the explosive hyper, wild, & feral moments.

Not "feral" in the endearing sense of the word that runs popular in some parenting circles. Where they speak the word with affection. They who call "feral" after their children's bare back and foot running through the forest. I do not mean this kind of feral (though we also inhabit this space.)

I mean more that Finn's feral is on the brink of fight or flight. A panicked look in his eye, a hyper inability to control his impulses. It seems to be his unconscious way to push back from the chaos he feels inside. Overstimulated? He will seek stimulation: screams, spews repetitive phrases, flails, seeks and seeks and seeks reaction from outside of him to push against him.

Some children will cling, sulk or cry softly. Finn does not. Until parenting, I hadn't thought how fortunate it is to have your meltdown state naturally align with what others expect a hard time to look like. Though, in the hospital, there was a baby down the hall who had a shrill, grating cry. It echoed through the maternity floor and Damon and I looked at each other, grateful for something we had never considered to be grateful for; that our baby had only a soft, sweet newborn cry.

How unfortunate to be born, through no fault of your own, into a body whose call for care and need is so abrasive, explosive, and grating against the intuitive sense of care we can illicit in others.

Finn's call for help runs counter to most human’s natural sympathies. He has taught me so much about self regulation, differentiation, grounding, unconditional care and love. He is the child who is teaching me to be more understanding, patient and tender than I would have ever chosen to become.

After years of deliberation, we felt it was time to put Finn on a daily seizure medication. As I write this he is at the maximum dose he can take before the levels become toxic to his body. He had two seizures yesterday, which means this medication will most likely be declared a failure and we get one more shot at another before having to look into other avenues of care.

I often wonder how much his seizure meds are affecting him. They are known to cause fatigue and exhaustion. I often wonder how much toll the seizures have taken on him physically and emotionally. I am constantly trying to evaluate how I can better hold him, support him, and show up for him.

Finn is a good kid.

He's a really good kid.

He is sensitive.

Loves big.

Feels deeply, lets it all flow out of him. He remembers what you love and tries to give it to you. He loves to be found clever and someone who will make you laugh. He loves to surprise. To shock. To wow.

If you ask him for some of his, he'll give you triple. He spends his money liberally on others, buys his sisters their favorite things with all he has.

He is not possessive. He'll pass by flowers in the store and asks to buy them for his teachers. He spends mornings before school making love notes for classmates.

He wants to serve you, help you. He will often find a mountain of laundry and try to sort through the whole of it before I see. He will cart all the baskets up the stairs before I can notice.

He stays up late writing up love letters with all his b's and d's backwards. bab is so loved in our home, and I have written proof times100 of that fact.

Finn is obsessive about everything Spider-Man.

He loves weapons. He'll adorn his costumes with plastic daggers and darts and swords and ask in vulnerable sincerity, "Do I look strong mom?" He will take his sword and shield out to the trampoline and wage war on half deflated balls.

Griffin has a gift for singing. Beautiful voice, intuitive tone, amazing memorization. So often he's been praised and adored for his voice that he is becoming paralyzed to expand it. As if his identity and worthiness will slip away from him if he can not ensure the praise he is accustomed too.

He wants to be found the best always and in all things. On top. Comparison is a lens he uses liberally to assess himself. He always wants to have what others wanted the most. He wants to be loved the most. He speaks often of times others told him he was the best or the favorite. It swells big in his heart.

Finn loves to create. Magna-Tiles, directed drawings, blocks, Legos, he is happiest in this space of creation or while outside.

He is my adventure buddy, willing to hike to the furthest sand dune or scale boulders in Joshua Tree. He loves soccer, gymnastics, pottery, rock climbing... I have never found an activity he didn't love engaging with.

All of our kids have loved to be watched while they explore the world, but Finn especially is hungry for our constant attention and affirmation to his ventures.

He climbed and fell, breaking his arm this year. I remember watching him hit the ground. An impact so complete that we picked the embedded playground bark from his skin as he struggled to breathe. He left that 15 foot fall with cuts and a broken arm, while I left with a deep gratitude it wasn’t worse.

I did not love the fear of it, the pain of it, or the medical bills. But I love the wisdom it instilled in his body. No words I speak over him will ever sit as deeply in his bones as the wisdom of experience. I love that, as he explores new heights, he gets to hold that wisdom in his own body.

Finn hates bedtime, & others getting to play with friends without him, bread with seeds, dinner time, change (all new items of clothing will be rejected and cried over to process before they are accepted and worn), transitions, seizures, apologizing, being corrected, losing, group photos, being cold (he gets colder faster and stays cold longer than anyone else in our family. It's often he will leave the house in the winter with 3 pairs of pants on to help brace himself.)

Griffin can become so excited about something that anxiety and scarcity rush in, sabotaging the thing he wants most. (A trip to roaring springs, earning money, rain on Halloween night, taking a mental health day, getting a blood draw...)

He likes hard boiled eggs and too much whipped cream on his waffles. He loves to talk and tell you what he finds disappointing or funny. He loves rainbows and blankest, being cozy and being needed.