Hudson is a mystery.
He’s sweet.
He’s polite.
He’s loving.
He’s incredibly thoughtful.
And he also appears to have consumed an industrial-sized quantity of caffeine despite my repeated assurances that I have never given him caffeine.
He’s the kind of kid who will ask you for a hug every single time you walk past him.
Kisses?
Absolutely not.
Don’t even try it.
But hugs?
Hudson would probably spend every waking moment wrapped around somebody if we let him.
He’s also the kind of kid who will absolutely drive you completely insane.
Tell him not to do something?
He’ll probably do it 52 times before deciding he’s finally had enough fun.
We have a running joke in our house that one day I’m going to hang him from the ceiling by his toes.
He knows I’m kidding.
Mostly.
But somehow, despite his incredible ability to purposely drive everyone around him completely batty, Hudson is also one of the most genuinely kind kids I’ve ever met.
He’s the first person to help someone who is struggling—even when he’s struggling himself.
His teachers constantly tell me how polite he is.
And that’s Hudson in a nutshell.
He’s chaos and kindness somehow stuffed into the same ten-year-old body.
Hudson was speech delayed and was diagnosed with ADHD when he was six. He’s always been incredibly open about it, too.
He doesn’t hide it.
He doesn’t act like it’s something he should be embarrassed about.
He actually likes people to know because he wants other people to feel less alone in whatever they’re dealing with.
Of course, being open about those things doesn’t mean they’re always easy for him.
He struggles with certain tasks.
He gets frustrated easily.
Organization is not exactly his strong suit.
There are plenty of days where something that seems incredibly simple to everyone else feels like an enormous mountain to Hudson.
But somehow, even in the middle of his own struggles, he still notices everyone else.
When he was three, I used to take him to speech therapy.
Every time we’d get into the elevator on the way down, Hudson would immediately start inviting whoever happened to be riding with us over to our house.
“Hey! If you want, you could come hang out at my house!”
It didn’t matter if it was a child.
An adult.
Someone we knew.
Someone we’d never seen before.
I’m pretty sure if a mascot had gotten into that elevator, Hudson would have invited them over too.
Because that’s just Hudson.
Everyone is a potential friend.
Everyone is welcome.
And apparently everyone needs an invitation to our house.
Then there was the dandelion incident.
I was coaching Hudson’s baseball team, and one day he started crying while we were out on the field.
I went over to him and asked, “Buddy, what’s wrong? Did you get hit? I didn’t see a ball come near you.”
He looked at me, completely devastated, and said,
“No! My friend stepped on a dandelion, and I feel so bad for the dandelion!”
Then he looked around the field.
There were dandelions everywhere.
And apparently this was the moment he realized the magnitude of the situation.
“They’re all so beautiful, and they’re all about to get stepped on!!!”
I mean…
What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
😂
This kid was genuinely mourning the dandelions.
And honestly?
That’s the part of Hudson I never want him to lose.
That ridiculously big heart.
And then there’s the talking.
Oh, the talking.
If you ever see Hudson, there is approximately a 100% chance he has a story to tell you.
And he will tell you the entire thing.
Every detail.
There will be no skipping ahead.
There will be no “long story short.”
There is no such thing as long story short with Hudson.
A few Saturdays ago, I woke up at 4:30 in the morning thinking I was going to have a peaceful cup of coffee and get some work done before everyone woke up.
Except Hudson was still awake.
He had never gone to sleep.
So naturally, when I walked into the kitchen, he followed me.
And he had a story.
He followed me to the coffee pot.
Still telling the story.
Then he followed me to the bathroom.
Still telling the story.
I washed my hair.
He continued the story.
I walked back into the kitchen.
Still telling the story.
I made my coffee.
Still telling the story.
Finally, I sat down at the counter with my coffee and he finished the story.
Because apparently the story could not possibly end until he knew I had heard every single word.
And honestly?
That’s Hudson.
He just wants to be heard.
He wants to share things with you.
He wants you to know what he’s thinking.
He wants you to know what happened.
He wants you to know what his friends did.
He wants you to know about the new game he’s playing.
He wants you to know about approximately seventeen completely unrelated things that happened between the beginning and end of the original story.
And then he’ll probably start another story.
It’s exhausting.
It’s hilarious.
And someday I’m probably going to miss it more than I can imagine.
The funniest part is that Hudson will actually tell his younger siblings every morning:
“Hey! You guys need to calm down. Mommy hasn’t had her coffee yet, and we shouldn’t talk to Mom before she has her coffee.”
Which makes me laugh every single time.
Because this is also the same child who will follow me around the entire house at 4:30 in the morning telling me a 45-minute story before I’ve had a single sip.
So apparently the rule applies to everyone except Hudson.
Hudson has always struggled with sleep, too.
Some days he’ll sleep until I have to wake him up.
Sometimes that’s 1:00 in the afternoon.
Other days, he won’t sleep at all.
And on those days, when I stumble downstairs for my morning coffee, he’s already bouncing off the walls, completely thrilled that another human being is finally awake and available for conversation.
Getting him outside can be a chore.
Actually getting him out the door?
Sometimes you’d think I had asked him to hike across the entire country.
But once he’s out there, he loves it.
We like walking the trail next to the river.
There’s a big rock we walk down to where we all sit, take our shoes and socks off, put our feet in the water, and just… breathe.
The first time I told Hudson we were going for a walk on the trail, he literally cried because he did not want to go.
Then, on the way home, he was upset for an entirely different reason.
He looked at me and said,
“This was actually really fun. Can we do this again?”
And somehow, that became one of those little things I decided I wanted to make sure we kept doing.
My goal is to get us out there at least once a week.
Because sometimes kids don’t know what they need until you help them get there.
Hudson also loves soccer.
He played football for a while, but it ended up being too much.
Two-hour practices every night, games on Sundays, and everything else our family already has going on was a lot for him.
Especially because Hudson is also an introvert.
Soccer seems to be the sweet spot.
One practice.
One game.
Enough time outside.
Enough time with his friends.
Enough activity to keep him moving.
But not so much that it completely overwhelms him.
It’s one of those things where we’ve learned that more isn’t always better.
Sometimes the right amount is just enough.
And then there was the field trip.
This one broke my heart a little.
His teacher messaged me one day and asked if I had signed Hudson’s permission slip because she hadn’t received it yet.
This wasn’t unusual for Hudson.
Organization is hard for him, so a lot of the time his teachers and I communicate directly to make sure things don’t get lost in the shuffle.
Except I hadn’t even received the permission slip.
So I asked Hudson about it.
He said,
“I don’t want to go.”
I asked him why.
“Buddy, what do you mean you don’t want to go? All of your friends are going to be there. I don’t want you sitting at school by yourself. You should go.”
And then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“Mom… I know you don’t have a lot of money. I don’t want to use it on something like this when we could need it for something else.”
He was ten.
Ten.
He shouldn’t have been thinking about whether or not his mom could afford a field trip.
He knew I’d had to make changes in my work because of everything our family needed.
He knew I was trying to figure out how to make an income work around our schedule.
And somewhere along the way, this ten-year-old had decided that something he wanted wasn’t worth asking me to spend money on.
That broke my heart.
So we talked about it.
I told him the field trip was free.
He didn’t have to worry about me spending money.
He could go.
He could have fun.
He could be ten.
He told me he’d think about it.
I also talked to his guidance counselor, who talked to him and reassured him that there was nothing for him to worry about.
Eventually, Hudson decided to go.
And I am so glad he did.
Because that’s Hudson.
He can be annoying.
Oh, he can absolutely be annoying.
He will push your buttons.
He will tell you a story when you desperately need silence.
He will invite complete strangers to your house.
He will mourn a dandelion.
He will probably do the exact thing you just told him not to do approximately 52 times.
But he’s also the kid who notices when somebody else is hurting.
He’s the kid who wants everyone to feel included.
He’s the kid who will help someone even when he’s struggling himself.
He’s the kid who loves with his whole heart.
He’s the kid who worries about whether somebody else has enough.
And he’s the kid who will probably ask you for a hug the second you walk past him.
So yes.
He’s a sweet and polite squirrel who appears to have consumed an industrial-sized quantity of caffeine.
But underneath all that bouncing, talking, annoying, hugging, storytelling, and chaos…
there is one of the kindest little souls I’ve ever known.
And I have a feeling there will be plenty of Hudson stories around here.
Because with this kid?
I’m pretty sure the stories are never going to run out.