Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 20
New Normal

Monday morning arrived with its familiar routine, but something had shifted. Ash woke wet, as always, but when Shannon came in with her cheerful "Good morning, sweetie!" he didn't turn away or ignore her.

"Morning," he mumbled automatically.

"There's my boy! Let's get you changed and ready for the day."

Ash let himself be lifted to the changing table, let Shannon work through the routine. He stared at the ceiling, trying to find the rage that had sustained him for weeks.

It was there, still. Buried under exhaustion and defeat and the memory of four spankings in twenty-four hours. But it was smaller. Quieter.

Easier to ignore.

"Arms up," Shannon instructed, and Ash raised his arms. Let her pull on his shirt—another cartoon character, a smiling elephant today. Let her snap him into overalls and help with his shoes.

"Perfect! Ready for breakfast?"

"Yeah."

Shannon carried him downstairs, settled him in the high chair. Set out oatmeal and a sippy cup of juice.

"Want to try feeding yourself today?" she asked.

Ash picked up the spoon. His hand was steadier than it had been a week ago—muscle memory developing, his toddler body learning its capabilities. He ate most of the bowl himself, only needed Shannon's help twice when the oatmeal got too thick to scoop easily.

"Excellent job! You're getting so good at this." Shannon wiped his face, lifted him down. "Playtime now. I have some laundry to do, but you can play at your table if you want."

Ash walked to his little table—walked, didn't need to be carried—and sat in the chair. Shannon set out coloring books and crayons, then disappeared into the laundry room.

Ash colored. A smiling sun. A cartoon dog. He stayed inside the lines without really trying, his hands knowing the motions now.

This was different from a week ago. A week ago he'd colored with resentment, with barely suppressed rage, with constant internal screaming.

Now he just... colored.

Not because he liked it. Not because he'd accepted it. But because fighting it was exhausting and pointless and earned nothing but consequences.

Strategic compliance had evolved into something else. Something more automatic. Less conscious choice and more default behavior.

Snack time came. Shannon brought animal crackers and juice to his table. "Here you go, sweetie. Mommy needs to make some phone calls. Can you play quietly for a bit?"

"Okay."

"Good boy."

Ash ate the crackers. Drank the juice. Picked up a crayon and started on a new page—a cartoon cat this time.

He could hear Shannon in the kitchen, talking on the phone. Something about a church event. Something about coffee next week. Normal adult conversations that had nothing to do with him.

Lunch was grilled cheese and apple slices. Shannon cut them small, let him feed himself. He managed it with only moderate mess.

"Such a big boy! You're doing wonderful with feeding yourself lately."

After lunch came the inevitable diaper check and naptime. Ash let Shannon carry him upstairs, change him, tuck him into the crib. Lay down with the stuffed dog and closed his eyes.

Fell asleep without meaning to. His body on its toddler schedule, betraying him again.

He woke two hours later to Shannon lifting him from the crib. Another diaper change—wet again, always wet. Then she carried him downstairs for afternoon activities.

"I have a friend coming over for coffee," Shannon announced. "Mrs. Sullivan from church. She's been wanting to meet you."

Ash's stomach tightened. A stranger. Performing for a stranger.

"Do I have to?"

"She's just coming for coffee, honey. You can play with your toys like normal. Maybe say hi when she gets here, but then you can just do your own thing."

The doorbell rang twenty minutes later. Shannon went to answer it, gesturing for Ash to come along.

"Noam, this is Mrs. Sullivan. Can you say hello?"

The woman was older, maybe sixty, with kind eyes and graying hair. She smiled down at Ash warmly. "Well hello there! Your mother has told me so much about you."

Ash stood there, small and exposed in his cartoon overalls, looking up at this stranger who was looking at him like he was actually a toddler.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"What a polite boy! And how old are you?"

The question was probably automatic. Something adults asked small children. Mrs. Sullivan didn't know she was asking something loaded.

"Two," Ash heard himself say. The word was ash in his mouth.

"Two! What a fun age." Mrs. Sullivan followed Shannon into the kitchen. "You have such a lovely home, Shannon."

They settled at the kitchen table with coffee and cookies. Shannon had set Ash up at his little table in the living room, visible from where they sat but not directly part of the conversation.

"Play with your blocks for a bit, sweetie," Shannon instructed.

Ash sat at his table and picked up blocks. Started stacking them automatically while the adults talked.

"He's adorable," Mrs. Sullivan said, her voice carrying into the living room. "And so well-behaved!"

"Thank you. He's been adjusting really well." Shannon's voice had that proud maternal tone. "We've had our challenging moments, but overall he's doing wonderful."

"I can imagine. It must have been quite the transition for all of you."

"It was. Still is, some days. But we're settling into a good routine."

Ash's hands stacked blocks. One on top of another. Building a tower while his mother discussed him with her church friend like he was actually a toddler making normal developmental progress.

"And he looks so healthy! You're clearly taking excellent care of him."

"We try our best. He's eating well, sleeping through the night most of the time, learning new things every day."

Learning new things. Like how to stack blocks. How to color inside the lines. How to accept bottles and carriers and being discussed like he wasn't a person who could hear every word.

"Does he go to any playgroups or activities?"

"Not yet. We're keeping things fairly low-key while he continues to adjust. Maybe in a few months we'll look into some toddler classes or library story time."

Toddler classes. Story time. Activities designed for actual two-year-olds.

Ash's tower got taller. His hands moving automatically, building because that's what was expected, what was normal, what kept the adults from paying attention to him.

"Well, he certainly seems content," Mrs. Sullivan observed. "Look at him playing so nicely."

"He's a good boy," Shannon said, and there was genuine warmth in her voice. Pride. "Aren't you, Noam?"

Ash didn't respond. Just placed another block on the tower.

"Would you like a cookie, sweetheart?" Shannon called over to him.

"Yes, please."

The automatic politeness. When had that become automatic?

Shannon brought him a cookie on a small plate. Set it on his table. "There you go."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, baby."

She kissed the top of his head before returning to Mrs. Sullivan. Ash ate the cookie in small bites, listening to them talk about church committees and upcoming events and neighborhood gossip.

Normal conversation. Like this was a normal playdate, a normal afternoon, a normal mother with her normal toddler son.

"He's remarkably calm," Mrs. Sullivan commented. "My grandson at two was into everything. Couldn't sit still for five minutes."

"Noam's generally pretty easy-going," Shannon said. "Though he has his moments, like any child. But we've worked hard on establishing routines and expectations."

Worked hard. That was one way to phrase it.

"Well, it shows. You're doing a beautiful job with him."

After about an hour, Mrs. Sullivan started gathering her things to leave. She stopped by Ash's table, looking at his block tower.

"What a lovely tower! Did you build that all by yourself?"

Ash looked up at her. At her kind, grandmotherly smile. At the genuine interest in her eyes as she looked at his blocks like they were a real accomplishment.

"Yeah."

"It's very impressive! You're quite the builder." She patted his head gently. "It was so nice to meet you, Noam."

"Nice to meet you too."

The polite response came without thinking. The words his parents wanted him to say, flowing out automatically.

Mrs. Sullivan left with warm goodbyes and promises to see Shannon at church on Sunday. The door closed. Shannon returned to the living room, smiling.

"You did so well, honey! You were such a good boy while Mrs. Sullivan was here."

"Can I go outside?"

"Sure, baby. Let me get your jacket."

They went to the backyard. Ash headed immediately for the sandbox, sitting in the sand with his plastic shovel. Shannon settled into a patio chair with her book, one eye always on him.

Ash dug. Built small mounds. Knocked them down and built again.

The slide stood nearby, bright and tempting. He hadn't used it since that first time. But his body remembered the motion. The brief moment of wheee before his mind had crushed it.

He glanced at Shannon. She was reading, not watching intensely.

Ash stood. Walked to the slide. Climbed the plastic steps.

Sat at the top.

Pushed off.

Slid down.

The motion was smooth, the landing soft on the grass. And for just a second—just one traitorous second—it was fun.

"Yay!" Shannon called from her chair. "That was great! Want to go again?"

Ash wanted to say no. Wanted to walk away, to reject the fun, to refuse to give her the satisfaction.

But his body was already climbing the steps again.

Slid down again.

And again.

"You love that slide!" Shannon said warmly. "I'm so glad we got it for you."

Ash slid down once more, then stopped. Walked back to the sandbox. Sat down and dug with more force than necessary.

He'd just played on the slide. Repeatedly. Without being told to. Because some part of him—some horrible, traitorous part—had wanted to.

Had found it fun.

Had acted like an actual toddler instead of a twenty-four-year-old trapped in a toddler body.

The realization made his chest tight.

"Time to come in soon," Shannon announced after another twenty minutes. "Dinner will be ready when Daddy gets home."

Dinner was chicken nuggets and green beans. Ash fed himself the nuggets, let Shannon help with the beans when they got too difficult to stab with his fork.

"Good job eating your vegetables!" Shannon praised. "You're eating so well lately."

After dinner, bath time. Shannon washed him gently, shampooing his hair, narrating every step like he didn't know what washing was.

"Let's get your hair... there we go. Now arms... good boy. Legs... perfect."

Pajamas. Diaper. Story time in the rocking chair—Patrick joined tonight, sitting nearby while Shannon read from a picture book about a bear who couldn't sleep.

Then crib. Tucked in. Mobile wound up. Door cracked.

"Goodnight, sweet boy. We love you."

"Night."

The automatic response. When had that become automatic too?

Ash lay in the dark, thinking about his day. About coloring and eating and playing. About saying polite things to Mrs. Sullivan. About sliding down the slide multiple times because it felt fun.

About how none of it had involved active resistance. Active defiance. Active anything.

He'd just... existed. Gone through the motions. Done what was expected with minimal fuss.

Because fighting earned spankings. Because defiance led to broken-down sobbing and forced apologies. Because rebellion was impossible and exhausting and pointless.

So he'd cooperated. And cooperation had become routine. And routine had become automatic.

And somewhere in that process, he'd slid down a slide multiple times and forgotten, just briefly, to hate it.

"My name is Ash," he whispered into the dark. "I'm twenty-four years old. I'm not a toddler."

But he'd played like a toddler today. Had interacted with a stranger like a toddler. Had eaten and colored and slept on a toddler schedule without significant internal resistance.

The rage was still there. Buried deep, carefully controlled, never fully gone.

But it was quieter now. Easier to ignore. Less likely to surge up and demand expression.

Because expression earned consequences. And consequences hurt. And avoiding consequences meant cooperating.

And cooperating was becoming his new default.

Patrick had been right yesterday. Today was easier than Sunday. Tomorrow would probably be easier than today.

Each day a little more automatic. A little less resistance. A little more like the child they wanted him to be.

Five thousand seven hundred and eighty-five days to go.

And Ash was starting to realize that he wouldn't need conscious resistance broken every single day.

Eventually—maybe not soon, but eventually—he wouldn't need it broken at all.

Eventually, cooperation wouldn't be strategic. It would just be what he did.

Because it was easier. Because it avoided pain. Because after five hundred days, or a thousand days, or five thousand days, his brain would be rewired by the sheer repetition of routine.

Pavlovian conditioning. Behavioral modification. Neuroplasticity working against him.

They didn't need to break him completely.

They just needed to make compliance easier than resistance.

Day after day after day.

Until one day, he wouldn't even think about resisting anymore.

He'd just be Noam.

The thought should have terrified him.

Maybe it did.

But he was too tired to feel the terror fully.

Too tired to do anything but close his eyes and sleep.

Tomorrow would come.

And he'd wake up and get changed and eat breakfast and play with his blocks.

Because that's what he did now.

Because it was easier.

Because they'd won.

Not just the battle. Not just the war.

But the long, slow campaign of making him forget he'd ever been a soldier at all.