In order to end Sibling Week, I am posting this journal entry about this past September 11. It was actually a crazy day for us, but not because of the anniversary of the terrorist attacks, but because my family was being challenged. I was racing against time and the school bus and I only partially succeeded. And Avery noticed, as she always does....
At 2:47 pm, I pulled up to my house in the minivan stuffed
with my two youngest kids, supplies for an entire day, and my mom. And waiting for me at the bottom of my
driveway was my oldest child’s school bus.
I felt a wave of relief, confusion and shame wash over me at the same
time. We made it three minutes later
than her afternoon bus stop time. It was perfectly timed in a way because the
bus driver let her off at the end of the driveway, and we did not have to
proceed four houses down to the corner to meet it at the normal stop. It was serendipitous because if we had been
just a few minutes (or seconds) later, she would have had to go all the way
back to school, most likely in tears, because there was no one there to meet
her at the stop.
Picking her up there, at the afterschool program, would have
been awful—it would have caused such a pit of guilt in my stomach, and so much anger
was likely to come from her for having to endure such parental neglect. It was
confusing, though, because I had quickly arranged with a neighbor just a few
minutes before to get her off the bus because we were almost there, but might
not quite make it. Somehow that didn’t
happen. It was shameful because it
looked to Avery and to the driver that I had NOT made such an arrangement and
it really did look neglectful. I was
feeling like a bad mom—my plans gone awry.
In truth, we had just barely made it—late enough to miss the
actual stop, but early enough to catch it before it left the neighborhood. As I look back on the
day, it is clear that I had packed too much in—lots of important stuff, of
course, but none the less, too much of it. Yet again, because of my
overscheduling, Avery was going to feel like she was last on the list and she
was going to let me know it.
So. Much.
Guilt.
So it really did not matter that we had timed it perfectly,
really, because in Avery’s mind a deviation from her normal bus stop with the
threat of having to be the kid who had to do a ride of shame back to school
feeling quite unloved and forgotten was unforgivable. I agreed with her, but it was too late. I barely made it and it was obvious to
everyone involved.
Failure.
Deep Sigh.
Back when I worked in an office in an important-looking
building in the middle of the important-looking downtown, I had lots of
important things to do that interfered with where I wanted to be. I needed a haircut, and I couldn’t go because
I had a meeting with a client. I had a
meeting with my boss, and so I could not make it home for dinner with my
husband. Then I had kids and my important things doubled, tripled, quadrupled,
and balancing it all (without beating myself up all the time) became a daily
decision: What is most important today relative to the rest of my week so that
by Friday everyone is content? Maybe not happy with me, but content. This was
my standard—mediocrity spread thin.
This daily prioritizing was exhausting but I was totally
committed to succeeding with my “have it all plan”: Keep the downtown office
job and manage my kiddos. Here is what I
did not count on: HEARING LOSS. Totally unexpected. Totally outside of my neat, little plan. And in most ways, it was more important than
anything I had ever done before. Talk
about imbalance! The scales were tipping
in favor of my second child (Ella) every day because I had a small window of
time to help her succeed for life— I knew it was much less evenly spread out
because of brain
plasticity and the science of early intervention. We
were racing against the clock and we had only three short years to get there on
time. Oh the Pressure!
To add fuel to the fire, I was still responsible for more
than half of my family’s income and I had another child (Avery) to boot. Here is where the rub is—and I’m being very
honest here. In some ways, the first
three years of Ella’s life were so critical to the rest of her life that I felt
like even my other child would have to sacrifice in the process. True, but terrible and unfair to a 2.5 year
old whose baby sister was diagnosed at birth.
Avery is what some would call a high need child—not to put
labels on her, but I say all the time that she started out with colic as a baby
and has always required attention at levels outside of the norm. She is also fiercely independent and wants to
do things herself. However, she really wants
you to sit next to her and watch and praise her every move while she
independently does things. She gets emotional when she is not perfect, in spite
of our urging that we do not care if she is perfect. We, like one of my
favorite bloggers, Glennon Melton
told her children, we do not want her to be perfect, we want her to be kind and
happy. At her core she is always both,
but she does demand and command more day-to-day, minute-to-minute, parenting
than most kids. And I may not have
minded it, but in my head, I thought—how can I give you my all every day when
you are my HEARING child. You have to
get with the program, kid. Suck it up.
You have a deaf sister and she needs me now more than she will at any
other time in her life. Sorry, but we
are all sacrificing here. Nobody asked
for it, but it is what it is.
How do you explain such a concept to a little one? You can’t.
It is a steep learning curve for everyone and I realized that her life
as a high need sibling of a deaf child was going to be exponentially harder and
possibly charged with more than the average sibling rivalry. And I was totally unprepared to handle that.
On Valentine’s Day 2011, when Avery was five and in private
kindergarten at her wonderful full-time preschool that she attended from four
months old on, it all came crashing down.
Ella had a Valentine’s Day party at the Atlanta Speech School and
Avery had a dance performance and party later that day. I could do both, I told myself. It would take some driving around and some
effort, but it was only one day and I could do both. How could I NOT do both? They both needed me to be there.
Did I mention that I also had a high-need client at the
time?
She needed me desperately that day as well, and I knew that
in my work world, there was no snubbing this lady. She held very important, very large purse
strings and preschool parties or not, I had to jump when she said jump. So in between the 10am party at Ella’s school
and the 3 pm party at Avery’s school, I needed to be at the client site for a
very important meeting, which was in a third impossibly traffic-ridden part of
town. Recipe for disaster. Do you see it coming?
Ella’s party was delightful and full of language-rich
activities, arts and crafts, sweet treats and homemade Valentines. Oh, I forgot to tell you that I started a
tradition when Avery was 2 that we would make our Valentines from scratch for
each child in the class as a fun project.
Trying to win the Pinterest Mom-of-the-Year
award, I guess. Therefore, on the days leading up to the big day I am covered
in red paint and pink glitter and glue and doilies, bits of construction paper
and stickers and marker from the late nights of crafting each tiny greeting,
usually largely by myself. Not only
really smart of me, but also a hot look for the office.
Anyway, I may have been bleary-eyed from
putting finishing touches on sweet treats and cards the night before, but it
was easy to get to Ella's party on time because I simply stuck around after
dropping her off and there were no issues.
After the party, I made my way to the client meeting and
also made it just in time. However, the
client was late getting there and wanted more time than I had planned for. So, at 2:30, I finally hopped into my car to
make the 30 minute trek to Avery’s school to see the dance performance that she
had been working on all week. Just
enough time.
Not, of course factoring in the horrendous traffic jam on
the highway that kindly extended my drive by an extra 15 minutes. Oh, I told myself, not to worry, I always get
there on time and these little performances never truly go off on time. We end
up standing around waiting for every parent to get there before they start, so
surely I would not miss the dance.
Wrong. Very Wrong.
I got to the school at 3:15.
I high-tailed it to the classroom with the hope that I could still make
it, only to find a completely hysterical Avery in the arms of a teacher.
I had missed it. And she noticed. Big time.
My heart sank and then shattered into tiny pieces. I ran over to my precious girl and led her
outside and we had a big long cry together on the playground. I hated this for me and for her and I could
not take it back. I apologized and she
forgave me, but I knew this would be an indelible memory punctuated with the
fact that I had made it on time for Ella’s entire party. Which she asked me about,
and I admitted out of lie-guilt. Great!
More proof that I loved and cared about her sister more than her. Yes, at five she was that analytical.
When we came back in, the most magical thing happened. A sweet teacher (who dedicated her life to
wiping away the tears of kids whose parents had to work and had to miss things)
found deep compassion for me and my little girl in her heart. She asked the kids to come back up to the
front of the room and do a repeat performance of the dance.
I got a do over!
It was not the same as having made it to the original
performance. I would have liked to have
skipped the tears, but I got to see it, Avery felt like she got to perform for
me and all had been made just a little better.
We got a metaphorical band-aid that particular day.
But on this day, I hearkened back to that Valentine’s
day. My important things that day were
to achieve five appointments spread across two kids at the Children’s Hospital
complex between the morning school bus time and the afternoon school bus
time. It was going to be a challenge, I
knew to get to the afternoon stop, and I had a backup plan if we were cutting
it too close. After a double ENT
appointment with prescription writing (Ella) and ear cleaning (Wyatt), we
headed to the audiologist who determined that we had a broken hearing aid and
needed a new ear mold for Wyatt.
Then we crossed the street to the main hospital building and
headed to the phlebotomy lab to get some blood taken for Ella’s Allergist. However, the orders for the bloodwork had
been mailed to my house instead of faxed to the hospital and were, unbeknownst
to me, sitting in a pile of papers on my kitchen counter instead of being the
least bit useful.
We headed to the cafeteria where I promptly called the
pediatrician and asked them to resend the blood work orders by fax. After two transfers, I finally got the right
person. I stuffed down a cafeteria
cheeseburger and lamented over the fact that my daughter was not going to eat
anything on her plate but her potato chips.
I played with my baby a little while he sat in his dreaded car seat,
took a call from a colleague at work and then headed back downstairs to the
lobby of the hospital to register for Wyatt’s hip scan.
All of my kids have to have hip scans for dysplasia because
Avery had it so the family history makes them all at risk. It was Wyatt’s turn. We went through the three step process (give
your name, wait, give your insurance and registration information), then we got
his paper work and his little ankle band.
We jetted down the hall to the phlebotomy lab to see if the orders from
the pediatrician had arrived via fax.
They had! So Ella received the
very awesome and helpful numbing cream on her arms over the veins they might stick
for the blood draw.
A storyteller with a
wagon of books and stuffed animals then entertained her while she waited 30
minutes for the numbing cream to work.
At 1:35, my mom took her back to get her blood drawn. Meanwhile, Wyatt and I were already back in
radiology in a dark room with soothing music playing (Did I mention how much I
love Children’s Hospital of Atlanta
because of all of the warm embraces they give you on days like this? Please if
I ever fall ill, pretend I’m under 21 and send me to a top notch children’s
hospital—so much better than the adult version.) Wyatt had his diaper off, a loincloth
covering parts that might squirt the technician and an ultrasound probe was
being used to scan his little hip joints to see if they were healthy. He was
delightfully smiling at the technicians and cooing as he also snacked on a
breast milk bottle I pumped for him before we left, per hospital instructions.
T-minus one hour until the bus arrives. When the technicians leave the room to “check
with the Radiologist to see if they need more pictures,” I text my neighbor to see
if she could grab my daughter off the bus should we be unwillingly
detained. “Sure” was the text I got
back. Deep breath. Mantra begins: It is ok to ask for help. It is ok to ask for help. Dark side of the brain enters the
conversation: Avery is going to kill you for not being the one to pick her up
from the bus. Avery will kill you. Avery will kill you. Possibly only emotionally with her dirty
look, possibly in your sleep when you are defenseless. (Exaggeration, here… she is not the murderous
type, but you get the gist.)
It is ok to ask for help.
Although, Avery may kill you.
Image of the Valentine’s Day scene from 2011 flashes before
my eyes. Another reminder that I am not
the perfect parent she craves and I mentally add a tick mark to the running
total in her head that says “She loves my brother and sister more than
me.” Not true, sweet girl, and I would
do anything to eliminate that thought from your pretty strawberry blonde head. But I have to show you, not tell you, don’t
I. Cue more knots.
The “check” with the radiologist takes over 20 minutes. Sigh, and cue nausea. I quickly make the exec decision to dress my
son and prepare for departure. I
practice the line to the technician in my head should she need more pictures,
“Sorry, we will have to reschedule. We
have been here since 9:15 this morning and we need to pick up his big sister
from the school bus.” Planned sacrifice
for baby girl #1 that she will never see- a return visit to the hospital on
another day.
Luckily, the technician reports that we are all done and we
speed race in with the stroller to the main lobby, pick up Ella and my mom and
head to the parking deck. We leave at
2:18 pm. And well, you know the rest.
I barely made it. The tears from Miss A only lasted 2 minutes
when she heard that we had been at the hospital all day. She softens, and I realize she gets it. She knows it is hard for all of us, but she
wants to make sure I won’t forget her.
