25 years is 9131 days (have to figure in leap years, of course.) 25 years is a quarter of a century. 25 years have passed since I lay in a hospital bed in Roanoke terrified of delivering my baby because I’d been told she wouldn’t survive birth. At 6:37 p.m., as Charlie Daniels played at Victory Stadium during Festival in the Park, she met this world as a whopping 8 lb. 13-ounce bundle of sweetness that smelled like cake and looked like Don King with her cap of hair. It stood up on her head like the hair on those troll dolls from the 1960’s.
She looked like she had apples in her cheeks. I was told it was because of hypotonia (low muscle tone)—I didn’t care. I just wanted to kiss them.
Extended Childhood
25 years. That’s how much time I have had so far being the Queen’s Omma. We travel. We shop. We laugh. We watch Barney (still) and we swing. We laugh so hard her one eye closes & no sound comes out. We enjoy life. We love watching “Good Times” together (she loves her some J. J. DYN-O-MITE!) And we love DQ.
Oh, how our town needs a DQ.
She’s my perpetual kindergartener–even younger in some ways. But that’s okay. I relish the fact that she still wants to sit on my lap, and play with bubbles, and finger paint, and scribble with crayons. Then there are the random times when she acts a bit older. Her love of dinner theater and her sometimes sassy tone (which I love) reveals there’s a mix of ages intertwined in her “medically impossible” genetic makeup.
Aside from a few uniquely-said words, she’s non-verbal. Non-verbal doesn’t mean she can’t communicate, however. It can be frustrating for her sometimes when she’s trying to tell me something but just
doesn’t
know
how.
It can also be interesting for me, too, trying to decipher her words, or learn her signs—like the time she watched me stand at the counter & snarf down dinner and was persistent in telling me something that was on her mind. Omma was in a rush. Had things to do. Had to get her bath ready. Dry her clothes for school tomorrow. Gave no thought to dining etiquette.
The Queen had been poring over a Barney book before my eating caught her attention. She tapped the back of her little hand underneath her chin and would giggle and giggle and sign it again. I kept asking her, “What are you saying? What are you trying to tell Omma?” The next day at school I mimicked the sign and asked her speech therapist, “What does this mean?”
“That’s the sign for pig,” she replied.
And B giggled and giggled…
Blessed–indeed.
25 years I’ve had so far. My blessings are not lost on me. I do not—ever—take for granted a single day I have with her. Nope. I won’t. I can’t. Each day is a blessing. Each day is a gift. And today—May 29—is a day of celebration—a celebration of the amazing, unique, 95 lb., petite young lady who fills my days with joy and awe.
Happy 25th Birthday, Punkin. I love you with every fiber of my being and I’m so proud to be your Omma!
We have this ritual, she & I. The Queen loves her music. To play it. To sing it. To listen to it. For, oh…about 3 years now…we’ve had this ritual. She sits in the bathroom while I shower, and she makes requests.
Usually, it’s “Wheels on the Bus”, replete with all the verses. How does she let me know? She does the universal “shhhh” sign—pointer finger in front of lips.
When I get the signal, I commence.
The driver on the bus says move on back (throw arm backwards) move on back, move on back; (repeat and add “all through the town.)
The babies on the bus go wahh wahh wahh (rub hands at eyes as if crying) wahh wahh wahh, wahh wahh wahh (repeat and add “all through the town.)
The mommies on the bus go shh shh shh (finger in front of mouth as it makes “shh” sound) shh shh shh, shh shh shh (repeat and add “all through the town.)
Depending on how quickly I get through with my shower, this song has been sung upwards of 6 times.
I love that she and I sing together. Frequently. Loudly. She directs. I sing. And sometimes, she claps enthusiastically and bounces where she sits. We aren’t limited to bathroom singing, either. This can happen anywhere—kitchen, porch, back yard, the Piggly Wiggly. Her enjoyment has prompted me to sing sometimes for 45 minutes or more, until my throat is sore and I’m dreaming the lyrics that night.
So, it was no surprise to me the other day, as we were riding north on I-77 on a sunny afternoon, that she had this request. My iPod was playing our tunes, a mish-mash of Journey, Will Smith, The Marshall Tucker Band, Heavy D, Evelyn Champagne King, Betty Wright. The Queen usually sits in the backseat, tapping her foot and slapping her leg (depending on the genre, of course,) as we enjoy the melodies and head to our destination.
I began singing… “Just a small town girl….livin’ in a lonely worl…” when I hear an “Omma!” over Steve’s beautiful voice.
I turn the stereo down (she’s the only one I will turn Steve Perry’s singing off for.) “What is it?”
She signs “shh.”
So I begin………..
“The wheels on the bus go round & round, round & round, rou…” I’m interrupted again by her Highness. I turn & see her signing “shhh.” She wants me to jump to that verse. I oblige.
“The mommies on the bus go shh shh shh, shh shh shh, sh…” and finally, a louder, more insistent and drawn out, “Ommmmmmaaaaaaaa!” from the back seat.
“What is it?” I ask, confused by what she’s trying to tell me. She leans forward as far as her seatbelt allows, and taps that tiny pointer finger to her lips slowly, deliberately.
“Did you just want me to quit singing along with Steve???” I asked.
She flings herself back on the seat as if exhausted from trying to communicate with her slow-to-understand mother. “YES!” she nods. “SHH!” she signs. Then signs music.
Apparently, I annoyed her with my singing. I didn’t know whether to be hurt that she wanted me to shut up, or proud that she wanted to appreciate our Portugese crooner in the fullest capacity. Perhaps she just requires–as I do–that no one is to speak/sing/make any utterances when Steve sings.
I’m going to believe the latter. At least until she tells me otherwise.
I stood the Queen at the window to watch her Adday (translated: daddy) chop wood for the firepit–first time she’d ever seen the event. Her attention was captured and stillness settled on her as she processed what he was doing. Her breath made a fog on the window, and the occasional nose print appeared when she tried to get an even closer view of this amazing and unusual activity.
Fascination
Once she understood what he was doing, she seemed to relax and immerse herself in every movement. He would swing the ax, she would bounce and giggle. We could actually feel the impact of the ax to the wood to the ground from where we stood in the house–which only heightened her mental participation.
The swing-thunk-crack turned into swing-SQUEAL-thunk-BOUNCE-crack-GIGGLE.
Adday stopped to catch his breath. B knocked on the window and emphatically shook her head “yes”–which was her way of telling him, “Do it again, Adday!”
And so he did.
May I always appreciate and enjoy the swing-thunk-cracks of life that could easily be overlooked.
She talks in her sleep. Not very often, but she definitely talks in her sleep. I hear her on the baby monitor as clearly as if she were lying in bed with me. What does she say? “Muh-muh” which, when translated, means “cereal”. So, apparently the Queen has frequent dreams about her cream of wheat with butter & cinnamon, oatmeal with brown sugar and toast, and—because she is my daughter, afterall—Boo Berry.
Then there are occasions where she’s fully awake & talking. A typical night finds me summoned to her room with a drawn out “Ommmmmaaaaa” to take her to the potty, or bring her some water, or find her Meer that she’s dropped & can’t find because it’s dark, or file a jagged fingernail that she discovered at 2:30 a.m.
Or all the above.
Last night, we had both. She awakened and called out for me. “Ommmmmaaaaaa,” she said. I hopped out of bed, opened her door, and asked, “What do you need, Punkin’?” From the darkness, she says, “Meer”(I leave the light off so as not to wake her up even more.) I’m usually awakened by the sound of her mirror hitting her wood floor or bouncing off the baseboards, but this time, I’d heard nothing. Deductive reasoning told me the Meer was still on her bed, but out of reach for her to find in the dark.
It was.
I handed it to her, kissed her mouth then gave her a sideways kiss on the dip above the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows. “Night-night, I love you,” I whispered. “Ah nah nah,” she said (that’s Queen-speak for “I love you.”)
I climbed back into bed, fully expecting to be called again. I don’t close my eyes until I hear her rhythmic breathing, which tells me she’s back to sleep. It didn’t take long before that happened, and the cadence lulled me to sleep.
Sometime later, I was awakened again. “Momma,” she said. It was quiet. Clear. I lay still, listening for the familiar sound of stirring as she sits up in bed, which lets me know if I’m needed or if she’s simply talking in her sleep.
Continued silence.
And then, once more, “Momma.” This time, I could hear her smiling when she said it.
So many times I’ve looked at her & said, “I sure wish I knew what was going through that beautiful, wild-haired head of yours.”
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had even thought about rising, I did. My daughter was thinking about—dreaming about—me.
Why was this so awesome? Why was this profound?
It was all in the way she said it. I’ve always been “Omma” when she needs me to pick up her Good Housekeeping magazine she’s dropped. Or walk her to the swing. Or feed her lunch. Or when she’s calling for me to watch her play air guitar while her keyboard plays the pre-programmed tunes of “Camptown Ladies.” Doo-dah. Doo-dah.
I am “Momma” when she’s sitting on my lap with her arms around me as I rock her back & forth…back & forth, or when she’s feeling particularly sentimental and gives me kisses me on the forehead. I am “Momma” when she wants to make sure I know she loves me.
So, while lying in bed across the hall from sleeping beauty, I finally was able to know just what was going through that beautiful wild-haired head of hers. I was.
Think about hair for a moment. We wash it. We brush it. We style it. We comb it. We pull it up in a ponytail or hide it under a ball cap. How many times a day do you have to brush your bangs from your eyes? We do it mindlessly. And at the end of the day, some of us take our hair down. Perhaps brush it again just before going to bed.
Now think about not being able to do any of that.
As I readied the Queen for bed tonight, we were going through her nightly ritual. Hands washed. Pajamas on after a slathering of “sleepy” lotion. Two pair of socks–“peh” as she calls them–the bottom layer are cotton, the top are fuzzy. She rubs her pointer finger across her teeth. “No, I’ve not forgotten,” I tell her, as I retrieve her toothbrush. After I brush her teeth and get her a drink of water, I get the hairbrush out of the cabinet.
She’s sitting on the side of her bed now, legs swinging, head down so she can look into her Meer and check her “pearly whites” as I call them.
And I begin to brush her hair.
She doesn’t look up. Instead, she watches me through the Meer, and I see her noticing her hair. It’s particularly shiny tonight, and I’m surprised by how the single light bulb in her ceiling light creates the look of spun gold in her strands.
I make sure her hair isn’t tucked into the collar of her shirt–and I keep brushing. Her legs swinging.
I take my time. Make sure to get from forehead to nape. Temples. Then back again. I lean in and sniff deeply, and am reminded by the citrus-scent that I used extra conditioner during her spa bath. Hence the shine.
Her legs stop swinging. She holds the Meer up and looks at me through it. “Ah na na,” she says. “I love you, too, Punkin.”
“Pretty” she signs, as she looks at her hair. “Yes, your hair is beautiful.”
A giant yawn nearly makes her face disappear and she lies back. I sideways kiss the dip above the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows, & tell her goodnight. I’m humbled. I’m thankful. Those small things that we take for granted, that we do without thinking, my sweet girl can’t do for herself. But I can for her.
I had taken my father-in-law to his doctor’s appointment in Roanoke that day. Would have been so easy to see the event as just another day, and as many times as I’ve sat in the waiting area of a physician’s office, this day should have been no different.
But it was.
I observed couples filing in. And singles. And some entire families. One man walked stooped and with what looked like a broomstick fashioned into walking stick. What a mission he was on. Another lady who appeared to be maybe 5 feet tall (which included her perfectly permed hair) and every bit of 90 years old plopped into the chair at the check-in desk and proclaimed, “I hope the exam room isn’t too far away. I’ve already walked 2 miles!”
The volunteer quickly appeared with a wheelchair and offered her a ride to Waiting Area B.
“I don’t need that! What do I look like? An old person?” She snapped.
I chuckled to myself at her quick wit.
And then there they were. A woman of about 60 guided a tall, slender man who by appearance could have been her age or 20 years her senior—I wasn’t sure. He shuffled his feet as he walked, uncertain of his steps, and his gaze was somewhere….somewhere else. The lady companion spoke in kind and assuring words. “We’ll go over here.” “Come this way.” “Let’s take this over here.”
He followed.
As they approached, I noticed his pants were “high-waters” as we said when we were kids—then I noticed why.
The white ankle-band stood out like a neon sign outside of an all-night diner. The GPS tracking system was attached to his body, a sort of security in case he was lost. I choked back tears as I watched the two of them—her guiding, him following—and I wondered, “Is she his wife? His caregiver? His daughter? Who was the person who wants to make sure that while they’re losing their loved one, they won’t lose their loved one?”
My heart felt heavy and the lump in my throat grew. God bless this woman. God bless this man. We all are going about daily life, eating breakfast, jumping in the car, pulling tickets before we enter parking garages so those gates will lift and let us in, signing in, signing out, eating lunch, laughing about memories of birthdays past and planning for Christmases coming.
And here are these precious two—one guiding, one following. One remembering, one forgetting. Both loved.
I saw my father-in-law come through the doors and walk to the check-out window. I walked toward him as I heard him making his next appointment. He turned and smiled, and kind of half-jokingly said, “Well, if you like, you can bring me to the next appointment, too.”
She was 11. 11½ to be precise. I climbed the steps to the school bus and saw her sitting there in the front seat by herself looking, well, unkempt and worn out. My first words, were, “Wow, what’s the matter, punkin?” She didn’t answer me—she can’t communicate in typical fashion. I have to rely on facial expressions and her modified sign language to decipher how she’s feeling. I unbuckled B*, helped her down the steps, then turned to thank the substitute bus driver before I picked my daughter up to carry her inside the house. We had our usual routine when she arrived home from school. I’d change her into more comfortable clothes, remove her AFO’s, rub her feet, get her something to drink, something to eat, then we’d sit and I’d ask her how her day went. She couldn’t tell me, of course, but I was able to read the daily note from her teacher to catch up. Of course there was always good news somewhere—how she matched colors out of a field of 5, how she helped in the library, how 4 kids from the regular education classes skipped their recess to come to her class to play with her.
Today was different.
Once she & I were inside, I removed her shoes and AFO’s. I had a freshly washed pair of lounge pants to put on her for her to relax in after her day at school, so I stood her up to remove the ones she’d been wearing all day. I pulled them down to her knees and gasped in horror. On the inside of her thigh, from her groin all the way to her knee, she has a blood red, nearly bleeding, swollen and very hot to the touch injury. I can’t call it a bruise, because this was a thousand times worse. I’d never seen an injury like this—and it was on my child.
I tried—oh how I tried to hide my horror. Immediately I dug her notebook from the backpack to see if there was a note about how it happened. I knew there wouldn’t be, because her teacher and the aides in the class called me for everything–I wouldn’t have been informed with a note. I called her teacher and asked what happened today. “Nothing, she was fine when she left.”
I was stumped–had no clue how it could have happened. To cover all the bases, I called the transportation office to let them know, too. My Mom said she’d come down the next day and we would go to the school and talk in person to the principal, and she would also bring a camera so we could take photos. The following day, Mom & I arrived early to the principal’s office. He’d been expecting us, and he’d also asked the transportation director to attend the meeting. She arrived with the video from the bus the previous day.
That meeting is forever etched into my memory. We all sat in silence, facing the television screen as the video played. I witnessed it. I saw it. And there was nothing I could do because it had already been done. A 20-year-old female student (special education services are provided until the age of 21) was very obviously hurting my baby girl. She kept leaning over almost on top of her. The only thing my child could do was say “Omma.” She said it faintly, but repeatedly. I noticed the 20 year-old kept looking into the mirror above the driver’s head as she held her down. At that time, my daughter weighed barely 70lbs. She cannot walk independently, so she couldn’t escape. She cannot talk, so she couldn’t tell the bus driver she needed help. All she could do was sit there—and call out for me.
After this meeting, Mom & I went to her classroom. She was sitting at the table, smiling, doing her schoolwork, and very obviously enjoying her day. I wanted to put her on my hip, run out the door, and never return. Just hide out in a cave where we would see no one and no one could ever hurt her again. I didn’t know what disciplinary measures would be taken, but I was assured B would never be around her again. As she began her physical healing, I had to begin my emotional & mental healing. I knew, however, I could never unsee the video from the bus that morning. What a horrible assault on my helpless child. For 45 minutes. On the ride home. As I was fixing her snack plate. Oblivious.
The Vortex
Late the next morning, as I started housework, a car pulled up in my driveway–it was the Director of Transportation and the Special Education Director. Initially I thought, “Wow, how considerate. They’re making a special trip all the way out here (we lived 30 minutes from the school,) to check on B.” I invited them in, apologized for the mess, apologized for how I looked since I’d not showered yet, then told them to have a seat.
The small talk stopped there. They came to tell me that I needed to take B to the emergency room to have an exam. They watched another video from a different morning, and it was evident that she had been sexually assaulted as well as physically, not once, but at least twice on two different occasions.
My mind went into shock mode. I no longer sat on the couch across from them, I was hovering somewhere above, watching this all take place. I heard the words I said—asking crazy, insignificant questions as if it would make null and void what they just told me. I saw my black pajama pants and white t-shirt, the story book by my foot, and the silky doll on the chair where B left it. It seemed as though our conversation was playing on a radio, and someone was slowly turning down the volume…until I heard nothing but still saw mouths moving.
Once they were gone, I immediately changed clothes and left. There was a torrent of tears and rage and hurt and pain and hysteria. B’s principal met me at the door when I arrived and asked if there was something he could do. I told him I wanted her teacher to accompany us to the ER. Without hesitation, he said, “Of course.”
There’s no need to go into detail about what transpired at the hospital. Suffice it to say, my 11 year-old baby girl had a rape kit done on her by two Sexual Assault Nurse Examiners, or “SANE” as I learned they were called. One was male. One was a female. Her teacher and I held her hands, and stayed up by her head to keep her mind off what was going on. All I could do was pray she wasn’t feeling violated yet again.
After the exam, a female deputy took me into a room where we could talk privately. She handed me pamphlets and information for us as we began the process of healing. All of the pamphlets seemed to have the words “sexual assault” somewhere on them. She told me about counseling services that were available. (B literally wouldn’t be able to talk about what happened, so any counseling would have been useless.) “I cannot believe I am standing here having this conversation in a hospital with a deputy. This happens only on Law & Order! This doesn’t happen to us!” I said. “I know,” she said. Though her words were few, her compassion was evident.
Realities
As the days went on, I found out the following information: The examination revealed that there were scrapes and abrasions internally.
There were at least two instances of sexual assault, and the 20 year-old used a pop bottle and her fingers to brutalize my daughter. The video that I didn’t see was so bad that one of the officers had to leave the room.
It was evident that the woman had done this before, as she was very calculating and planning in her method. When asked why she kept looking in the mirror when she was assaulting B, she flatly said, “Because I knew if I got caught I’d get in trouble.”
The woman had a history of crude sexual talk, but it was overlooked. “Of course she can’t be taken seriously about topics like that—she’s in special education.” That was pretty much the thought by those who had heard her speaking in such vile ways.
The case went to court. The deputy told me it wasn’t necessary that I attend, since B was unable to testify, and they had clear video evidence. It was pretty clear-cut. Unfortunately, however, the Commonwealth Attorney chose not to prosecute. Why? Because the woman was in special education. To this day, I still don’t understand that.
Something—something should have been done. While I wholeheartedly agree that a typical prison wouldn’t be appropriate for her, she definitely didn’t need to be let off the hook and in the general public. It would happen again. She needed serious intervention, and all children need protection from her. Instead, her punishment was that she was put on homebound education.
Accommodations were made for us. The Transportation Director gave B her own driver (of my choosing,) in a car by herself. B’s principal asked if there was anything more he could do. I told him that her school photo had been taken on one of the days she was assaulted, and I wouldn’t be able to look at them. He arranged for her to have them retaken at another elementary school, and he allowed her teacher to accompany us. Speaking of her teacher…I have no words to express my gratitude for her. She’s one of the dearest souls I know.
There were also so many ways we were failed.
Had there been aides…
Had there been dual-busing, which was provided for all student except for those in special education…
Had those who worked with the woman had taken seriously her crude comments and innuendos and actions…
Had the attorney taken seriously the magnitude of the crime, and realized that regardless of the IQ of the one committing the crime, it’s still a crime…
Crossing the bridge to the new normal
So, how did we move forward? No justice for my daughter, so what could I do for it not to have happened in vain? I could be proactive, and I could use this mouth that the good Lord gave me. I could love B–cherish her, reassure her, and comfort her as we walked through this together.
I researched and discovered that all the counties surrounding us had aides on buses. I began pushing to have them hired in our county.
I learned about the Special Education Advisory Committee. I began attending.
I went where other parents of children who had special needs would be and I began networking. I shared our story freely, in hopes to bring awareness. I implored parents to be hyper-vigilant about who their child was around, and never just assume they were safe—make sure they are. Make sure that every measure that can be taken has been. Never assume you know what someone is or is not capable of, because the truth is, we don’t know.
What can you do? Find out who is around your child. Who are their seatmates on the bus? In the classroom? In the cafeteria? Are there safety measures you think could be taken but aren’t? Share your concerns! Talk to everyone who has contact with your child. Get to know the bus driver, teachers, the aides, the principal, the office and cafeteria workers. I was a familiar face at B’s elementary school, and I knew most all the staff by name—and they knew mine.
I was blessed that I was able to be involved, but I understand many don’t have the extra time. If you can’t be there in person, send an email and introduce yourself. Make occasional phone calls to touch base. Open the lines of communication and keep them open. And when an opportunity arises that you can be there in person, take it.
Thirteen years have passed. To this day, I still have the occasional nightmare where I am on the bus, holding a video camera, and recording the assault. I stand frozen, unable to put the camera down and save my daughter. I am forced to stand there and witness it over & over until I’m mercifully awakened.
But also within these 13 years, I’ve shared. No, it’s not easy to do it, but the possibility of preventing another child (or adult) from experiencing what we did makes the difficulty of sharing worth it. It’s unfortunate that often we don’t find our voices until we’re met with hurt, discrimination, violation, crime….but thankfully they arrive. With force. And loudly.
We moms of children who have special needs know that when we speak, we’re speaking not just for ourselves, but for other moms, for other children. We stand in the gap. Over the past 25 years, I’ve noticed that when one mom’s voice is weak, another mom’s voice gets stronger. (I’m referring to mothers specifically because I am one—I’m not taking away from the amazing dads who are involved.)
I didn’t realize it at the time, but when B was born I was immediately part of an extended family. A family of voices by proxy, of protectors, of advocates. Resilience, persistence, tenacity, and a fierce, protective love are dominant genes in this family, and it’s amazing how quickly a quiet, timid personality can transform into a Warrior Mom. I am honored to be part of that family.
To all of you who have walked along side us in our journey of joys and sorrows, thank you…..
(*I’m using only an initial to protect her privacy)
Congratulations on your new baby girl. Her head full of wild hair will be just the first of many things that makes you ooh and ahh over her.…
I want to tell you so many things you don’t know. But it wouldn’t matter any more than telling a sheet of copper that eventually it would become a vessel. The copper must go through the cutting and pounding and heat before it becomes what it was meant to be.
And so shall you.
I know you’re uncertain about so many things, and feeling you’ve been flung into a parallel universe where you recognize no one or anything. That’s ok. You’ll make it through. Even in the whirlwind of hospital stays and sicknesses and surgeries, you’ll still be sniffing her head, gnawing on her roly-poly thighs, buying frilly girly outfits in addition to the occasional baseball onesie, and snuggling her so tightly you feel you’re trying to absorb her.
Enjoy it.
Even at the hospital.
Enjoy HER.
You’ll meet doctors and nurses and teachers and aides and parents and people at gas stations who will make you cry tears of joy because of their unusual kindnesses.
You’ll also meet jerks.
But fortunately, the number of those who speak and act kindly will outnumber those who don’t. So please….try not to carry too long hateful words or deeds. They occupy too much space in your mind, and you for sure don’t want them growing the root of bitterness in your heart.
Your baby girl needs a peaceful you.
She needs a joy-filled Mom, who will eventually be called “Omma”.
Don’t fret over typical milestones. Your baby girl will set her own time schedule. Some things she’ll do on her time, some things she’ll simply not do.
Trust me. There will come a day where you won’t care about what she’s not able to do, and fully and completely rejoice in the things she can do.
And you’ll make a fool of yourself in parking lots.
“My 7 year old just signed “more, please”! She put 2 signed words together! She did it! She did it!”
The lady returning her cart will smile, you’ll get in your car and cry.
Happy happy happy.
You’ll pray like mad that God will heal her. Oh, young me, I get what you’re saying. But “she” doesn’t need healing. Yes, you’ll want her healthy. But her make-up, the DNA that has created this magnificent being and the God Who designed her, fashioned her in a beautiful way. “She” doesn’t need healing. She is who she is. Her abilities. Her “dis”abilities. Her different abilities.
One day you’ll realize—when someone comments that you’d probably give your left arm to make her “normal”–that no, you wouldn’t change a thing about her. She’s perfectly and wonderfully made, and you love her just the way she is.
And you’ll realize what a milestone that is for YOU.
And then you’ll cry.
Again.
20 year old me, I just want to say that you’re going to be overwhelmed when you get your baby home.
Overwhelmed with love.
With compassion.
With empathy.
Your vision will change. You’ll see everything through a filter, a filter that was created the moment you birthed her. You’ll consider where others may be, because you know where you are. You’ll be drawn to other babies who have g-tubes or AFOs or oxygen tanks. Your heart will be tugged as you see moms carrying their bundles of differently-created, tiny humans and immediately sense a familial connection.
Your endurance will be tested and proven. Your patience will be stretched and strengthened. Your heart will grow softer and your skin will grow thicker. You’ll see God move in ways that your limited, human mind could never have imagined.
So this vessel into which you’re being shaped, be sure it’s continually filled with the oil of compassion and hope and joy and encouragement. There will be occasions where you’ll begin feeling depleted, but if you remain open, I promise, you will be refilled. (2 Corinthians 1:4)
Put your nose on your baby’s head and inhale deeply. Sniff that sweet, infant scent. Etch the aroma of her “cake breath” into your memory. Nibble her toes. Rock her a little longer. Kiss those fat cheeks.
I awaken and smell coffee. Ahh…the joys of spending the night at my parents’ house. I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen. Not only is coffee freshly-brewed, but my mug is filled with hot water so that when I pour that first cup of joe, it doesn’t cool quickly from being poured into a cold cup. A solid night’s sleep. Hot coffee. A breakfast spread that rivals any famous buffet-style restaurant. Mom and her attention to detail.
Having been reared by “the hostess with the mostest” as she’s been called, I guess it’s no surprise that I welcome guests in my home. As a matter of fact, I love having overnight guests, especially when I have a few days to plan. If you’re staying at my house overnight, there are a few things you can expect when you go to bed (again, provided I’ve had a couple days to prepare!)
My Details
A bed with freshly-washed sheets and blankets. Oh, how I love to make a bed! I start with an excellent quality set of sheets—600+ thread count, and they have to be 100% cotton. The top sheet is put on thread-side up so when it’s folded down, the print and/or the decorative piping is seen. The corners must be mitered, too. If the sheets are wrinkled, I’ll iron them. Ok, I ironed them—one time. Now I immediately retrieve them from the dryer so wrinkles can’t set in, and if there are a couple, I’ll simply iron the top part of the flat sheet (the part that’s seen when folded down.)
Extra pillows. If you don’t have new pillows for your guests, now is the time to purchase some. They’re fairly inexpensive depending on where you buy them, and if they’re used only for guests, they won’t wear as quickly.
Extra blankets. Even in the summer, extra blankets are sometimes necessary for guests. They could be cold-natured, or the air conditioner may have it particularly cool in the bedroom. Better to have something and not need it than need something and not have it. Wash them, fold them neatly, and let your guests know where they can be found.
Nightlights. Obvious reasons here. A middle-of-the-night visit to the restroom or the kitchen for water shouldn’t be risky. Light their way.
Guest towels and washcloths. I have a couple sets just for guests. They’re washed, towels are folded in thirds, then placed on the table in the guest room. (On any given day, my linen closet could look like a mini-tornado went through it. Providing towels & washcloths upon arrival generally eliminates the possibility of their witnessing the aftermath.)
Travel-sized amenities. Shampoo, body wash, toothpaste, lotion, deodorants (men’s and women’s,) and a couple full-sized toothbrushes are in a basket on the nightstand.
Room-darkening curtains. This is especially important if the window(s) is east/southeast facing. (If they prefer to be awakened by the morning sun, they can keep the curtains open, of course.)
In the morning, after a (hopefully) restful night’s sleep, I’ll prepare breakfast, which is my favorite meal to fix. After all, it always includes coffee and usually includes bacon. What’s not to love? I’ll ask the guests the night before what their preferences are, then cook accordingly in the morning. Gravy, biscuits, eggs, sausage, bacon, baked cheese grits, hash browns, and blueberry waffles are some of my specialties. When the guests sit down to eat, there are a few things they can expect.
Preferences & Offerings
If they’ve chosen waffles, they’re going to have real butter and hot syrup. The thought of pouring cold syrup on margarine-laden waffles horrifies me. If I won’t eat it, I don’t expect my guests to, either.
Should biscuits & gravy be their preference, I’ll make homemade gravy and <gasp> frozen biscuits. I used to make homemade biscuits because the canned ones were just, well, not palatable to me. With homemade, it took about 45 minutes and there was flour all over the counter top. When I discovered Pillsbury’s frozen biscuits I never looked back. They’re the closest thing to homemade one can buy! (The only gripe I have is their packaging—I wish they came in a zipper-seal bag. You’ll have to use your own freezer bags if you buy them.) And since I’m a native West Virginian, if gravy is served, there will be apple butter on the table, too.
Thick-cut bacon. I’ve discovered that anything not specified “thick-cut” is in fact “see through” and shrivels up to nothing. Unless it’s Neese’s brand. See next preference.
Neese’s sausage. Full disclosure here—I’m a texture eater. I used to never eat sausage because I would always bite into gristle <fullbodyshiver>. That is, until I tried Neese’s. I’ve been using it for about 20 years and not once have I ever eaten their sausage and bitten into gristle. I recommend it to everyone. They are a family owned business with a small-ish delivery area, but they can ship to anywhere in the United States. Yes, it’s that good. http://www.neesesausage.com/ *
Orange juice in frosted glasses. I’m quite particular when it comes to my OJ. It cannot be “orange drink”, it cannot have pulp, and it has to be frosty cold. I know some prefer pulp—I just never buy it that way (texture thing again.) I buy the brand whose oranges all come from the USA.
Coffee. I drink mine strong and black, but when we have guests, I make sure to have creamer (not powdered) and artificial sweetener in addition to sugar. I love serving it in my grandmother’s china, too. There’s something about seeing her cups & saucers on my table that makes me wax nostalgic & feel all homey & warm.
And finally, a pepper grinder on the table. Freshly-ground is the way to go if you like pepper. I love it on eggs, hash browns, gravy, grits…well, pretty much everything.
This isn’t an exhaustive list of the details I’m particular about, nor am I able to do this with every houseguest. But when I have time to plan, this is what I enjoy offering. I’ve witnessed my Mom’s gift of hospitality. All of my life I’ve seen her go above and beyond to make sure anyone and everyone who comes through her door feels welcomed and loved. Perhaps hospitality is a gift—and I inherited it. Perhaps it is a skill—and I learned it. All I know is I’m thankful I had (and still have) such a great example in my Mom.
Now, if I could just cook like she does…
*I received no compensation for sharing this link.
All I could see of her face was forehead to chin, cheekbone to cheekbone. The Queen had her spa bath tonight and she was literally up to her ears in bubbles. The lavender-scented Epsom salt bubble bath, a cup of baking soda, and a towel over top of her as she soaks is what sets these baths apart from her typical ones.
And she loves them.
Stillness settles over her as she lay back, my arms underneath her to increase the sensation of buoyancy. Slowly I sway her—back…forth…back….forth—the rhythm seeming to command weightiness to her eyelids. My mind swooped back to the times I bathed her in the kitchen sink when she was a baby. All the way up to the age of 2 ½ she couldn’t support herself while sitting, so I’d cradle her with one arm while bathing her with the other. Amazing how dexterous we moms are with our babies. I’d wash her fine, curly hair with Johnson’s No More Tears, then hold up a mirror for her to see the white mass of bubbles piled on top of her head. Each time, I’d try to make it higher, higher, to see how tall it’d go before it would plop over. A yawn covers her face.
Back….forth….back….forth. The water cocoon and heavy towel brings tranquility. Daily, her muscles are worked 3 times as hard as anyone else’s in similar situations. A typical task is hard work for her. An expenditure of energy. Her bath time is therapy. The swaying continues as I quietly sing, “Hush little baby don’t say a word……Omma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…” My left arm is under her at the small of her back, my right hand cradles the back of her head. “….and if that mockingbird won’t sing, Omma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring….”
Forty minutes have passed–I feel the water starting to cool. I situate her where her head is out of the water, and she’s covered from her neck to her toes. She remains quiet. I scoop up a palm full of bubbles and put them on her face to make a white beard and she asks for the mirror (yes, she has a non-specific one for bath time, which started with the kitchen sink baths.) She cracks up at the sight. Twenty-four years I’ve done this. Just as I begin thinking nothing has changed, I realize it has. I reach for the razor and uncover her left leg, shave it, then repeat the process with her right. My baby. And I am shaving her legs. She’s wearing a bubble beard, a plastic fish floats in the water, and I’m shaving her legs.
Some may see it as a confusing mish-mash of baby toys and grown up necessities. I see it as a blessed blend of all things I’ve been chosen to do. Keep her clean. Let her have fun. Help her relax. Be silly with her. Why wouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I?
I walk her to her bedroom, the too-big feet on her puppy-printed pajamas flopping in front of her which gives her a gait like a cat walking in wet grass. Her honey-gold hair has been blown dry, and is “so shiny and ‘poofy’” as Adday proclaimed. (We 80’s peeps see that as a compliment, don’t we?) She grabs her Meer, I sit beside her and begin our bedtime prayers. I whisper her secrets in her ear (something else I’ve done since Aug. 3, 1992,) and am nearly overcome with nostalgia. Oh, how blessed I’ve been to do this for 24 years. 291 months to be precise. Bath time replete with bubbles, fish that squirt water, bubble beards and shampoo crowns. My baby. She is freshly bathed. Smells of lavender. And has smooth legs.
You can read more about Britni here.
You can read more about Britni here.