Recently, we started watching Stranger Things.
For most families, that means settling into the couch, grabbing snacks, and diving into the next episode. For us, it means something different.
In between episodes, I have to remind him of what happened last time—who the characters are, what they’re trying to do, how the story left off. Even when we watched it the day before. Sometimes the same day.
And when the new episode starts, I keep the remote close.
Not to skip the scary parts.
Not to turn up the volume.
But to pause.
To explain.
To anchor him to what’s happening on the screen and how it connects to what came before.
Sometimes it’s a quick reminder. Other times it’s a full recap: “That’s Will’s mom. Remember, she’s the one who put up all the Christmas lights. And these guys are going into the Upside Down. It’s like that dark world we saw last episode.”
Sometimes he nods.
Sometimes he asks more questions.
Sometimes the explanation drifts away as quickly as it landed.
It’s like this with every show. Every movie. A remote in one hand, a thread of the story in the other, trying to keep him connected to something that keeps slipping through his fingers.
A few weeks ago, I read Still Alice, the book about a woman losing pieces of herself to Alzheimer’s. There’s a moment where her husband brings home movies because books have become too hard—too much to hold onto, too much to follow. Movies were supposed to be easier. But even those became confusing when scenes blurred together and storylines couldn’t be kept straight.
She could no longer follow the thread of the plot or the significance of characters who weren’t in every scene. She could appreciate small moments but retained only a general sense of the film after the credits rolled.
She wouldn’t understand why her family reacted the way they did to something on the screen, so she matched their expressions and faked the same reaction to protect them from how lost she was.
Watching movies made her keenly aware of how lost she was.
That part stopped me because it felt uncomfortably familiar.
My son is not losing memories the way Alice was. His brain works differently for different reasons. But the impact is similar. He can’t follow all the threads. He struggles to remember the significance of characters who aren’t in every scene.
And yet, he wants to watch these shows. He wants to enjoy them. He loves the characters, the action, the mystery. He wants to be part of the story.
This is where the questions start to land heavy for me. I wonder if he is aware of how lost he is. I don’t know if he knows any different. But he probably sees that not everyone is lost. He knows that I am not lost.
Does he think this is a common thing for kids his age? Does he believe you need to be a grown-up to follow the threads? Or does he know, somewhere inside, that this confusion is something uniquely his?
I don’t have those answers. But I do know that every time I reach for the remote, I am not just pausing a show. I am trying to make sure he never feels like he has to fake understanding to keep up. I am trying to meet him where he is, in the spaces between the story he wants to follow and the story he is able to hold.
