Before The Sun, There Was Otto

written by Marial Leisge

My son’s internal alarm clock goes off at exactly 4:30 a.m.—without fail. Luckily for this night owl, my husband is already up by then, brewing coffee and beginning his own routine.

But we live in a tiny ranch-style house, so it’s impossible not to hear the morning symphony: laughter, footsteps, and what sounds suspiciously like bowling in the kitchen.

I usually pretend to be asleep just a bit longer—anything to avoid solving problems before dawn. I lie there with one eye open, waiting for my morning miracle: hot coffee, delivered to my bedside. One of the many small perks of being married to a man who gets it. He knows the faster I sip, the faster he can dip.

And sip I do—sloooowly. Even though, truthfully, I'd snort a line of coffee grinds if it meant I could keep up with my son.

Then I hear it: “Let’s go see Mommy.”

I brace myself. I’m groggy, unprepared to parent at a militant hour, but the sound of Otto’s stomping toddler feet running down the hallway—followed by the silhouette of his naked little body and his dopamine-triggering voice saying, “How was your nap? Was it good?”—gets me every time.

And just like that, I’m in. I’m awake. I’m grateful. He surprises me every single day.

Otto is… a rad little dude. A deeply patterned creature of habit. His love language is routine, and his favorite time of day to practice it is exactly 4:45 a.m.

Every morning, we go through the ritual:

• He climbs into bed and pulls the blanket to his chest, and says, “Ohhhhh, it’s so snuggly.”

• He presses his forehead against mine for ultimate closeness.

• He grabs my hand and smashes his face into my palm, whispering “Are you stuck?” in a distorted inhale-voice, just to be funny.

• He smacks my arm—then immediately corrects himself: “No hitting Mommy. You only hit the blanket.”

• He launches into rough-and-tumble play until I can’t take the sensory overload anymore and “escape” by fake-waking up.

  
  

But today? Today was different.

Because here’s the thing: Otto is a sensory seeker. His brain and body are wired to crave input. Not just through the five senses most people know—but through all eight sensory systems that help us navigate the world. Most of us aren't taught about those, but as a parent of a neurodivergent child, I’ve learned them like a second language.

So this morning, instead of enduring our usual wake-up wrestling match, I did something new.

I cracked open the window and whispered, “Otto, shhhhh... do you hear the birds singing?”

The sky was shifting from black to navy, and the birds were wide awake—chirping, calling, warbling in a symphony only nature can compose. It was electric.

Otto froze—completely still, completely tuned in. He lay beside me in silence. Listening. Smiling. Calm.

I could have cried. Not out of exhaustion—but out of gratitude. Because all the hours I’ve spent researching neurodivergence, sensory systems, and child development… they led me here. To this moment. And they were right.

The birds weren’t just background noise—they were medicine.

They were a gentle reminder that connection doesn’t always come from fixing or forcing. Sometimes, it comes from noticing. Slowing. Trusting that the world will offer just what your child needs, if you stay curious enough to look for it.

If Otto were a bird, I think he’d be a mockingbird.

Not because he mimics, but because he listens so closely first. Because he carries a repertoire of sounds collected from the world around him and shares them in a way that’s both surprising and beautiful. Because he doesn't speak to the world so much as with it — layering phrases, melodies, and gestures in a way that seems chaotic to some, but purposeful and profound to those who really listen.

This is the essence of Otto’s language as a Gestalt Language Processor—and why I’ve shifted everything I thought I knew about learning.

It’s also why I created WILD by Design -

A concept that honors children like Otto—those who need more movement, more curiosity, and more freedom to learn in a way that works with, not against, their natural design.

WILD by Design was born out of necessity—but it’s rooted in love. It’s a space for sensory exploration, not behavioral correction. A place where kids can be wild, parents can feel seen, and learning feels like play.