Wait for Me

"Wait for me!" I called to my daughter as we headed to to bus stop.  Just like that, just like always, she did.  I watched her beautiful honey curls sway in the wind as she waited for me.  Her beauty astounds me as it always has.  I took a moment to take her all in. Suddenly I started to feel uneasy and it didn't take long to figure out why.

For the three years our little girl has been going to school.  I have always walked her in to her classroom, or her to 

her bus stop.  She can't be left completely alone because of her autism, but regardless, I would walk her, I just love that time together.  She has made great strides over the years in gaining independence and safety.  She no longer screams and cries in the street or throws herself on the ground.  She no longer runs around the bus instead of on it, and due to necessity she has a tracking anklet if she ever does wander off.  We have spent years building all the proper steps to create a safe environment for her to exert her independence.  I can say with confidence we are getting there.

This day when I called her to wait for me was different, it was no longer because she couldn't safely cross the street without me, and I knew that, it is because I am no longer able to keep up with the normal stamina of an eight year old, and emotionally I can no longer cross the street without her.

I try really hard not to let my illness get in the way of my children's development.  I never want to hold them back, as my mitochondrial disease progresses it is a constant check and balances to be sure that I am not asking them to be the mature one in our relationship, that I am not depending on them when they should be depending on me.  It is a careful balance, one we do very well with most of the time, but it is difficult especially since two of her siblings are also afflicted with the same disease.

I blinked back tears and she pressed her "I love you" sign on the window of the bus as she rode away.  Boy do I love her.  Like the whipping winds on a warm sunny day that girl fills my soul and keeps my sails afloat.  I pressed the mirrored "I love you" sign against my heart, I could feel the pitter patter that connects us.  

The next morning I got her bundled up and watched her as she took inventory of herself in the mirror.  She looked at me when she was done "Do you have your crutch mommy? Do you need me to help you with your shoes? Do you think you should stay in today, it might be too much, I love when you walk me but maybe you are too sick.  Maybe Miss Emily should do it? Are you sure you will be okay?" My heart broke inside piece by piece as I listened to her beautiful little heart pour out her worries, ones a mother should have for a child,not vice versa.

We stepped out the door.  She skipped up ahead.  As she got to the end of the driveway she methodically placed her hand out waiting for me.  I was still about eight paces behind her taking careful steps with my forearm crutches.  "Come on Mommy, I'm waiting for you." She said with a sweet calm to her voice.

"It's alright love.  Mommy will watch you cross the street.  Just make sure you look for cars." As the words left my lips a smile formed, a mirror of the guilt that I was able to release.

"No, Mommy, I want to cross the street with you.  I like to cross the street with you.  Even though you walk slow, I'm in no hurry."  She put her hand out again and shook it methodically.  She looked back over her shoulder and smiled.  "Now come on, I'm waiting for you."

I took her hand with purpose that day and crossed the street.  We both smiled until the bus rolled up.  From her bus seat she flashed me her "I love you" and her eyes locked with mine.  She didn't have to say a single thing.  I knew right then and there her heart could read between the lines of mine.  No matter what we go through or how much things change my baby girl will always wait for me.

 

One Thing I Wish We Within the Disability Community Would Stop Doing Today

Every day I turn on my computer I am met with the same thing.  In one form or another someone is presenting a blog aimed at telling people a list of things they should not say to someone who is disabled, or to a parent of a child with disability.  They get passed around quickly, eaten up with that comradery people crave so deeply.  They are haphazardly added to the list of good reads one can easily relate to, but I think they can be more harmful than good and here is why.

As a young woman with multiple disabilities and the mother of several children who also live with multiple disabilities we are no strangers to the off color and sometimes hurtful comments strangers and even friends and loved ones can make unintentionally during conversation.  There have been plenty of times over the years that I have been left in tears from a well-meaning person who just did not know better when they offered me an earful of what they thought was positivity and support.  It is true that people who have not shared similar experiences often miss the mark without even realizing they are saying something that could be potentially damaging to your feelings, and of course it hurts.  It is only natural to want to fix that for the masses and to save someone else in similar shoes from experiencing that same scenario.

Even if I have agreed with all of the items on one of the notorious lists of things not to say, I can only think of one occasion that I have actually shared one with friends.  The particular post was pertaining to grieving parents and it was all down right common sense and words that most of my grieving friends had trouble finding themselves in all of their pain.  It was written with an emotional appeal as to why a grieving parent truthfully could not handle hearing certain clichés and written from a very raw perspective thankfully many will hopefully never have to face.  Many of these lists, however, whether the author has intended for them to or not, have an accusatory undertone and really widen the gap between those with disability and those without.  They often contain a lot of “you” statements and instead of explaining the emotional sentiment behind not being able to hear certain comments, they call the reader out for their mistake and shame them for making it, with their negative undertones. 

Where this becomes the biggest concern to me is the fact that we as a community are trying our best to bridge the gap.  We are always trying to remind others that we are the same despite our disabilities.  We spend our time preaching about how we wish that people would ask questions instead of acting uncomfortable around us, we ask that they make normal human conversation instead of pointing and staring, we plead that they don’t leave our children out of activities that everyone else is invited to.  How are we going to succeed in any of those areas when we are constantly writing open letters containing lists of things they shouldn’t say, or do, and giving them the concern that they need to walk on egg shells around our families? 

I am not in any way saying that I disagree with what these lists are suggesting people don’t say.  For the most part I have agreed with about 75% of them and have been hurt by most of those very statements unintentionally.  My concern is that these types of pieces are setting us back in what we as a community are trying to accomplish.  They are all but demanding people tiptoe around us when we should be allowing them to learn through openly spending time with us and giving them the grace they deserve when a social error is made.  

I have not been disabled my whole life, and there was a point where I was somewhat uncomfortable around people who had disabilities.  It wasn’t because I felt there was anything wrong with those afflicted by disability, but I was very afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.  I was curious about their differences as well as had a strong desire to befriend them just like anyone else, but I remember a huge anxiety burning deep inside of me that I would say or do something that would hurt their feelings, because I simply didn’t know what to say.  Reading a post such as “Ten Things to Never Say to a Child with Special Needs,” that had inflammatory and sarcastic undertones would not have helped to ease my anxiety at all, it would have caused me to clam up and give up.

Just as powerful as “you” and “I” statements, I feel these posts would be much more effective at getting their point across if they gave examples of what to say or do and not what to avoid.  There are always going to be those no matter what who are going to hurt you without meaning it, and some who just don’t care.  For those who do care, let’s show them we care by not treating them as if they have already done something wrong.  Telling someone not to do something naturally causes people to take a personal inventory and be unnecessarily alarmed that they may have done something to hurt you already, which isn’t fair.  Instead let’s give them the tools they need and the grace they deserve to truly be the friend/ family member you are hoping for.

Mitochondrial Disease; It Isn't All About Suffering

It is no secret that Mitochondrial Disease has brought a lot of trauma and suffering to our lives, the countless amounts of; hospital stays, ER visits, painful procedures, medications and side effects, interventions, adaptive equipment, medical supplies, doctor and therapy appointments, nursing visits, friends we have lost, the list goes on. 

What we don’t often talk about is the positivity that has resulted because of the hand we have been dealt that we cannot change.  The beautiful people who have entered our world that we would have never met otherwise.  The hand in hand comradery, the touch that says I know how you feel, without having to say a single word at all.  The close knit hearts, woven together, a stitch in time that began the moment the words were uttered “I have mitochondrial disease too.”

The strength and perseverance we must amount to in order to make it just one more day in this world.  The energy that it takes to lift your foot and take just one more step forward.  The close fellowship we have found with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who suffered most of all.    The power felt within when your knees hit the ground and you know He is the only one who can get you through to the other side.  The heavy weight lifting from your back, and the feeling of accomplishment when you take that deep breath and know you have made it through just one more trial. 

The closeness of a family who has learned to suffer well together, a family who has learned to pray together.  Though there is very little more heart wrenching then the cries of small children with tear streaked faces yelling “please don’t let her die,” there is also something extremely humbling about their heads bent in prayer, hands chained together praying over their sibling, knowing they can rely on God. 

This disease is cruel, it is destruction, it is heartache, but it is also the building blocks of positivity if you choose to find it.  Would I change it if I could? I would send it straight back to the maker, but the truth is I honestly believe for whatever reason we were meant to carry this burden we were also meant to find some peace with it.  I don’t know who we would be without it.  I do know we would be a family without physical suffering, but we might also be a family without the absolute blessing of the beauty that surrounds us because of this disease as well.

What Does Our Daughter's Autism Look Like?

She's at a movie theater, she is sitting next to me, legs folded "cris-cross-applesauce." She keeps her eyes peeled on the screen, pausing every few seconds to scrunch her tiny nose.  "What does despicable mean?"

"It means really bad, please whisper," I say "We are in a movie theater.  It is a quiet place."  She stares intently still, not removing her eyes from the screen.  She rhythmically pulls on the bracelet that surrounds her slender wrist.

"What does villain mean?"

"It means a bad person, remember," I say "We are in a quiet place." I shift in my seat.

She rocks gently back and forth in hers.



We are at the library, a gentleman is there to showcase snakes, a special viewing for children.  Around us are parents and small children of various ages.  Before us is the presenter and aquariums covered with sheets.  My daughter sits in front of me, surrounded by her siblings.  "Does anyone have any questions before I begin?" Several hands rise.

"When are you going to take the sheet off?" She yells.

"You can't shout out," I gently say "You must raise your hand."

"Are there snakes in there?" She hollers over me and the crowd.

I put my finger to my lip.  She looks through everyone as if she is the only one in the room.

Her brother's foot gently brushes the back of her leg. "Stop touching me!" She yells.  "You know I don't like it when you touch me!"

I can feel the stares sinking into the back of me.



We are at the ball field, an earned promise to our children, a game of baseball and a picnic on the field.  Her siblings are laughing and running despite the heat and sweat that is overcoming them; gloved hands, tightly gripped bats, soaring balls.  There are smiles everywhere.

Inside the dugout she sits, alone, book in hand.  Completely content to not participate.  She does not feel left out.  She is partially in her own world, and partially taking in the world around her, trying to grasp how it operates and what feels right to her.  She is learning what parts she wants to own and what parts she wants to discard.  She is figuring out how to be graceful in a setting  that was designed for those less unique than she was created.

It is not easy, it is not comfortable, but she is doing it day by day.  This, is our daughter's autism.

How this Special Needs Momma finds her Peace

They approach her bed, something is fiercely wrong.  Her alarms sound quicker and louder, sounds I have never heard before; noises I cannot connect with the reality that is vastly falling around me. 

I watch her lying there, nearly lifeless, although she must be living, the alarms tell me at least this much is true, so why isn’t she moving? Why isn’t she responding to their shaking, their vigorous rubbing, their claps, their yells.

I stand there completely still, as if I am not there at all.  I now know the truth and it isn’t safe with me.  I have no idea what to do.  I feel useless, afraid.  I close my eyes and try to find my peace.

It’s hard to imagine not having that one place your mind can always turn to; that one security, a place no one can harm you even in plain sight.  The world and all it’s unthinkables cannot touch you there.  The flesh wounds that each day inflicts are healed here.  In this place I am safe.  In this place I find my peace.

It’s 3 A.M. an ominous light peers through the window as I lie awake in a hospital bed.  It outlines everything unfamiliar that surrounds me, ending it’s design at the jarred door.  The hall lights are dimmed, like a drug store that has been closed for the night.  My family is tucked away elsewhere, my kids fast asleep.  I am alone.

 

I am here to rest and recover, but resting I cannot do.  Nothing here is familiar, or mine.  Even the pain inside my body feels foreign.  The blankets that are meant to keep me warm are brittle from years of being bleached and reused.

The IV pumps, forcefully, interrupting my thoughts.  This is not my place.  I close my eyes and try to find my peace.

As I finish my nightly routine making sure all of my children are tucked gently into bed I too find my way to my resting spot.  As I climb in my worries begin falling steadily to the floor.  I roll on my back, the softness of my mattress consumes me.  I exhale deeply, and inhale again.  In this place I am safe.  I close my eyes and try to find my peace. 

I take a look at my daughter.  She has more medical interventions than I have seen most people manage outside the walls of a hospital.  Some days I wonder just how we got here, and could we ever go back? It hurts to think about the choices we made and how different things may have been if we had just done “a” instead of “b” or the reverse.  Thinking like this does not help, it only leads to more pain, a heart that bleeds tears that sting the flesh.  I close my eyes and try to breathe.  My chest feels heavy.  I try again to find my peace.

Night:

You had a rough day.  You cannot go back in time.  Searching for reasons only brings more questions.  Searching for questions, never seems to bring answers.  You have made your choices.  The road you chose to take was a one way road.  It is too far gone now to turn back, just breathe.

Morning:

If you got through yesterday you can get through today.  Put one foot in front of the other.  You can only move forward.  Moving forward can never get you behind.  Go, move, and find your peace.

My day begins and ends with the only place I need to be, immersed in my faith.  It is the pacifying warmth that protects me from a world that is a little too flawed.  In my faith, This is where I move through the pain, despite the pain.  This is where I am safe, this is where I have peace.

When the Doctor Told Us We Would Outlive Our Daughter

There are few times in life that I can honestly say I nearly lost all faith; faith in everything, time, logic, even God.  Having no faith is like having no air in your lungs, no blood in your body, no place to go, no reason for anything, simply existing without purpose.  That is what it was like for me the moment a doctor told me in all reality despite some catastrophic accident, or miracle, we would outlive our daughter.

As the air began to refill the room a bit, I glanced over at our then five year old daughter.  She was sleeping on the examination table.  We had driven nearly a half days drive to get to see her specialist, and despite sleeping in the hotel for a full nights rest she was still simply exhausted.  She had ostomy collection bags hanging from different connections in her stomach collecting the drainage that her stomach and intestines could no longer process.  She had IV supplements pumping into her permanently tunneled central line to give her the nutrition her digestive tract could no longer maintain.  She was frail, her stomach was protruded, she was pale, and despite the life threatening sepsis she had just made it through, the chronic liver inflammation she was battling, the bone marrow suppression, the seizures, and difficult to treat infections we knew were ravishing her body and making her weak, it was truly the first time I saw her as ill as the doctor had just described her.  I wanted to be sick.

“How can you be sure?”

“When you have been doing this as long as I have, you just know.  No one's body is meant to carry on like this for the long haul.” she said as empathetically as she possibly could. 

I choked a little, my mouth without any saliva at all. “How long?”

“It’s hard to say.  If she continues down the path she is on now, as rapidly as she is, maybe one to two years at best.”  She looked at me for a moment longer, glanced again at my sweet sleeping girl, and then looked away.

“No, no,” I thought to myself, “There must be some mistake.  It just cannot be my little girl we are talking about.”  The entire conversation felt surreal.  Our doctor’s at home constantly tried to sugar coat everything.  They were always giving us the old “just give her some time,” speech.  I was so jumbled up I didn’t know what to believe.  Then it struck me.  It hit me so hard I nearly crumbled out of my seat; how quickly she had gone from a nearly asymptomatic little girl to a child who needed support for nearly every organ in the short matter of only 2 years.  How could this be happening?

I left that day not with a plan to treat or fix my child, but a paper full of suggestions and accommodations on how to best make her comfortable.  The shift in care left me feeling defeated.  She slept the whole way back to the hotel, while I cried.  The world isn’t supposed to work that way, you aren’t supposed to outlive your children.  You give birth, you raise them, you have grand kids, you help raise them, you get old, your kids help care for you, and sadly one day they bury you, and mourn for you, but that is the way this world is supposed to work.  It is the only fair and just way this world is supposed to work.  You aren’t supposed to bury your babies. 

It has been three years since that fateful appointment, and it took time, but I have regained my faith in; time, logic, and even God, not just because my daughter has lived, but because I need my faith to keep me sailing through this life we are leading.  I have watched too many friends of mine, whose children too have mitochondrial disease, bury their babies outside the proper order of time.  I have fought with the unfairness and illogic nature that comes with that tragedy.  It gouges out your heart and makes your soul bleed in a way I can never fully explain.  

 I can’t help at times to wonder when my little girl will no longer have the strength to fight, but I do my damndest not to think that way, not to live that way, because the only way to keep the life in her years is to allow her to live them, and that is what we intend to do.  Every morning when we wake, we give her life again, to the fullest, until the end. 

Our Little Miracle

We loved you long before we ever knew you.  From those early wishes and hopes for what your untold future would be, to the first beats of your heart and kicks of your feet.  We made plans for you, aspiring deeply to paint a picture hand-over-hand of the future you would have, one as beautiful as the love we felt for you.

We read to you every night as you nestled deep inside my womb, uncertain if you could even hear us, but believing that you could.  As we lifted the words off the page we let them be your story, written by another, but told by our hearts.  We allowed ourselves to think you owned them as if they were meant for you.

We engraved those words upon your baby blanket, so that when you made your entrance into this world we could wrap you in their warmth and familiarity.   We folded you tightly like a package, the visible corner underneath your Heaven-made face read;

           "Gaze at the stars,

             and watch the moon rise.

            Each day there are miracles,

            in front of our eyes.

            Dance to the music,

            and sing like the birds.

            Let stories and books,

            bring the magic of words.

            Enjoy friendship and laughter,

           your whole life through,

            and the love that we feel,

            as we welcome you.

        (My Little Miracle J. Beck and J, Croydon)

          We love you so much!
          Love,
          Mommy and Daddy"

We watched you grow and it was ever clear you marched to the beat of your own drummer.  You did things your own way, in your own time, and within your own expectations.  There was never a dull moment within your presence, lighting up each room you entered like the Fourth of July, all eyes on you, every one else taking a back seat.  There were days we feared you would fly so high you would never come back down.

We worried when they said that the you that was so special and yet so hard to "read" had autism. What would that mean for all the things we wished for you? Would all of our dreams for you now be just out of reach enough to make us ache?

We watch you grow now with this invisible label you wear upon your sleeve, always shedding your layers to reveal what is underneath, the raw, take-all-or-take-nothing you.  You are this amazing force inside a pint sized body, a constant tangle of knots we are trying to undo.  You refuse to be unwound.
 
We have overflowed with joy as you have checked off each of the dreams we had for you one by one without even knowing it.  You just love looking at the stars.  You take in everything like it is art, the sky to you is like a giant canvas, the stars small specks of paint.  Music moves you, your body constantly moving to a silent symphony that plays only for you.  You have loved books since you could hold one.  The first thing we learned you loved to do was count words and letters.  When you were four years old you told me there were twelve-thousand and fifty-two Z's in Daddy's chapter book.  You were so proud of yourself.  Words are definitely your magic, and boy do you love to laugh.  It echoes through our home and down the street.  It is impossible not to laugh with you when you are laughing.

We know you will always be uniquely you and that is just fine.  You have paved the way, so just continue to lead us behind you sweet love.  We didn't even know what we wanted until we got it.  It is funny how life works out that way.  Today I realized my heart couldn't be any more full when you approached me to give me a card you had made.  You told me that you had been reading your baby blanket every day and that you wanted to write me back a letter to tell me how you felt.  Before I even read it I felt my emotions take away my words, no matter what your feelings were, just knowing you were willing and able to share them with me was more than I could ask for.  What it said was far more than anything I could have expected:

"Dear Mommy,

I am really glad that you are my Mommy.

I love you so so much.

No matter where you are I will always love you.

Love,

Me"

Most importantly of all the things we wished for you, we know you feel loved. You my love are our "little miracle."

I Will See You When the Moon Goes Down and the Sun Comes Up

Every night since our son found the ability to speak to us he refused to let us leave his room with “goodnight, see you tomorrow.” He would swiftly shout back in his small sweet voice “no goodnight, not tomorrow.” Though to most it would seem like a defiant move to reject the idea of going to sleep that was not his reason, not one bit, not at all.

He simply needed the reassurance that closing his eyes meant nothing in his world would change.

I used to need that reassurance as well. For years our world was rocky, only barely remaining on it’s axis.  Our daughter and son’s health were in a near constant battle to stay stable keeping us in a revolving door of inpatient stays at the hospital. As the children continued to decline, so did my ability to stay faithful that they would stay with us long enough to see a cure for mitochondrial disease. Things have become a little calmer around here, but I would be lying if I said there were not days where that deep rooted fear did not climb to the surface of my mind. 

There were days he would wake up and find me gone. I hated that for him. So many; unexpected admissions with his sister, late night ambulance rides, middle of the night kisses goodbye, with no way to explain to a small-nonverbal-child that Mommy was coming back as soon as she could, wishing with all her heart that she could somehow be in two places at once. It was traumatizing for us both, the near constant separation that went on for well over a year. We all tried our best during those arduous times, but sometimes our best just wasn't good enough no matter how hard we tried. Only God knows how we came through, suffering only minimal scarring, on the other side. 

Not a day goes by where I do not count my blessings for that fact.

***********

I crawled into his bed, he lay on his side fidgeting with his flashlight. Placing his small hand in front of the light watching to see where it would fall, then glaring with fascination as it illuminated his hand when he interrupted the beam. I straightened out his covers and placed my head on his pillow. He rolled over turning off his flashlight, looking through me with his glassy grey eyes. 

“Are you sleepy yet?” I asked running my hands through his moppy-sand-colored curls. 

He smirked slightly curving only one side of his mouth, shrinking his eyes so that only his pupils were showing.  His thick eyelashes like blinds covering the small opening of his eye. “No, I not sleepy.”

“I think you are.” I stroked his baby soft cheek, his skin like satin.

He rolled over facing his top bunk, clicking his flashlight on and off, the light creating a perfect circle on the dull wood surface above. “Mommy, where does the moon go when the sun comes up?”

I laid still for a moment, unsure of what to think.  I was surprised by his sudden ability to formulate a question, the advanced thought process it must have taken, things he had struggled with since he had learned to speak. How long had he been thinking of this?

“Mommy?” He rolled back over pressing his small button nose to mine, so close I could smell his sweet baby breath.

“Well,” I paused for a moment to think “it is still there I guess, you just can’t really see it when the sun comes up.”

He sat up quickly, pulling the covers off of both of us, grappling for his flashlight, again shining it on the wall and then covering it with his hand, staring at it intently. “When the sun comes up the moon goes away? When the moon comes back the sun goes away?”

“Yes, but they don't really go away buddy. They are always there even when you can't see them.  Sometimes, when the sun is up, and you look really hard, you can still see the moon.” I sat up next to him gently taking the flashlight. I placed my hand on top of his letting the light shine through both of our fingers. He looked up and smiled, seeming to understand.

I finished tucking him in and started for his door. “Goodnight, sweet guy, Mommy will see you tomorrow.”

“No, no tomorrow, no goodnight.” He shot up and pouted.

“Mommy already tucked you in little man, it is time for me to go.” I turned around to leave.

“Say, I will see you when the moon goes down and the sun comes up, say that.” He was near tears, his chest rising and falling quickly, his face turning blotchy and red.

It was then that it hit me, he needed to know that just like the moon I wouldn't really go away, and just like the sun I would always come back. I walked back in and sat on the edge of his bed, placing my hand on his back.  He laid down, his mouth still in a downward curl.  His eyes turned towards his pillow. “I will see you when the moon goes down and the sun comes up.” 

He closed his eyes, smiling, and gently drifted off to sleep.

Embracing our Path to Homeschooling

Our daughter started off her kindergarten year just like every other eager five year old.  She counted down the days until she could get her oh so grown self onto the bus, make new friends, meet her very first teacher, learn to read, and gain that little bit of fly-from-the-nest independence that many children desperately urn for by their fifth birthday.  Sadly, due to her declining health, she could not have all her heart's desires, not in the way most children her age could at least.

We tried our best to make it work.  Though it was not the picture she had imagined from witnessing so many before her enjoy the simple pleasures of attending elementary school, we did all we could to assure that she was able to have as many of the same experiences as possible.  There were still some unavoidable differences; she got dropped off and picked up each morning/afternoon curbside so that we could carefully unload her wheelchair to be sure she had the energy to make it through the day, we had to hire a private nurse to attend with her so that she could manage her vast medical equipment and health care needs, her backpack contained more medical supplies than books, and countless other subtle to large differences that set her apart from the typical kindergartener.  Even with a special plan in place to help our daughter succeed educationally despite the effects of her mitochondrial disease, our local elementary school only had the pleasure of knowing our daughter for two months before those options were no longer enough to maintain proper education in a safe environment for her.   She simply became too sick to attend school.

At that point it was clear the only choice for her was to be homeschooled, so that is the choice we had to make.

The benefits have been clear, but it has been a very difficult road to acceptance.  Homeschooling our daughter was not something that had ever crossed our radar.  Not only had my husband and I both gone through the public school system to achieve our educations, my husband also spent years obtaining a postgraduate degree so that he could teach within the public schools.  It was very far outside the boundaries of our comfort zone, and something that we just had never chosen to put much thought into.  We had no problem with the concept of homeschooling itself or others who had chosen it as their children's educational path, it was just not something we expected, and because it was not something our daughter initially understood or wanted for herself it made it all the harder to embrace.

There were a lot of days in the beginning that made the choice we came to even harder to accept. When too many days would pass where I did not have her next to me wide eyed and ready to learn it made me feel like I was failing her in some way.   Though I knew that it was her body that was failing to support her and not me, I often lacked the courage to assure myself I was good enough to make it work.  I eventually realized that was my main fear when it came to the decision of homeschooling all along; feeling solely responsible for the possible downfall or success of our daughter's education.  We would no longer be the supportive educational role, but the single players in such an important part of our daughter's life, and while that might be some family's reason for choosing to homeschool, that was the one thing that was keeping me from being able to fully embracing it, fear.

Our little girl is now in third grade.  The decision we made, with the gentle guidance of our daughter's physicians, to teach her at home was one of the hardest we have had to make for her.  What has made it easier over the years is seeing all of the; educational, physical, and emotional benefits unfold for her as a result of it. She has made academic progress we were unable to attain while she was simply too exhausted in a classroom setting with teachers who were unable to give her that one on one attention she needed to learn. While I had no original desires to become a teacher, I had to, for her.  It has been both an exhausting and very rewarding journey to say the least.

I will admit there are days when I still grieve over what feels, at times, like the loss of a dream. The ebbs and flows of emotion are like waves upon the shore; sometimes silent and gentle, other times roaring loudly and knocking me clear off of my feet.  It often comes on strongest when she is too sick to homeschool. She will sleep the day away curled up in a ball; her curriculum opened and ready, untouched on my desktop.  I never know what kind of day it will be, always hopeful we will be able to complete another necessary day of learning.  There are days where I find myself reading chapter books out loud from the foot of her bed, stroking her delicate skin, hoping that maybe, just maybe she can hear my words and process even the smallest bit from her much needed sleep. Sometimes I question if I am really doing that for her, or for my own reassurance that we are doing all we can.

Today as I sat there again at the foot of her bed,  reading chapters to her softly drawn eyelids I paused a moment just to take her in.  Before I could even begin to start questioning myself, or our choices I gave her hand a gentle squeeze.  I know we are doing the best we can, and I know we are doing right by her.  The little girl who struggled to recognize the letters in her own name, can now read, she can write, and though she had the unfortunate circumstance of inheriting her grandmother's math phobia, I know we will get through that together too.  When you look at where we came from and where we are now I know we are already responsible for her success, together.

Just like Me

"I hope you have one just like you," my mother yelled as I stomped off slamming my door behind me. 

"Me too," I shouted back, sliding my back down the closed door, placing my hands over my tear stained face.  "Maybe then I will have someone to talk to who actually makes sense!" 

The echoes of her devious laughter bellowed down the hallway and off every inch of my mind.  At eight years old, I could not even begin to imagine what could possibly be so funny about that.   

*****

 

"Get back in bed, Chloe," I said without having to look up to see who the small footsteps coming down the stairs belonged to.

"But, my tummy hurts, Mommy."  She peeked her head around the corner flashing her tremendously large grey eyes.  Her lips pressed gently out into an over exaggerated pout.  It was enough to melt anyone's heart immediately, if only I had not seen it a million times before.

"You have already had; a sip of water, an extra hug, five more minutes, snuggles, and your tummy medicine, there is nothing else I can do.  You need to go to sleep."

 

Hysterical sobs began to flood the staircase as she threw herself to the floor.  "But I can't sleep when my tummy hurts, and my room is too dark, and my blankie just isn't warm enough, and and and..."

"That is enough, now go to bed!"

The sounds of her wails grew louder as she pounded up the stairs and slammed her door.  "You just don't love me, that's all!"

I leaned back on the couch, sighing deeply.  My body molding into the cushion below.  Every cell in my body was exhausted to the bone.  As I tried to mentally recuperate from the emotional toils of the past twelve hours the sounds of satisfied snickering came from the right side of the room.  I turned my head to see my father, who was visiting at the time, grinning from ear to ear glaring at me with a crazed look in his eyes, completely satisfied.

"She is just like you, you know."  He leaned back, placing his hands behind his head, enjoying the relaxation I was trying to accomplish.

"She is not.  I was no where near that difficult as a child.  Sure, I had my moments, but I," who was I trying to kid? The more I tried to talk myself out of believing that I had been anything like my daughter, the more I realized she was me, I was her.  As the light bulb went off my father's smile grew even wider, but it hit a sore spot with me somehow, not because there was anything wrong with her, but because I realized I had broken a promise that I had made to myself all those years ago.  I had not tried to make her life any easier than my parents had made mine.  I felt that I was failing her in every way I had promised I wouldn't when my mother cursedly blessed me, all those years ago, with a child just like me.   

 

The thing is the little girl who promised to understand and make easy the life of her future child knew nothing about being a parent.  Eight year olds know a lot about how to be good friends, but know very little about the vast responsibility and time it takes to enrich and shape the life of another person.  I was not looking to become my friends with my little girl, I needed to be her mother, whether or not she was a "gift" bestowed upon me to mirror my own personality. 

There were things I could do for her though.  I could more readily help her find her strengths and teach her to use her weaknesses to her advantage.  I could teach her how to use that pint sized emotional bomb of a personality for good instead of the manipulative road I took with it for many years.  I could remind myself to let her be quirky, because as painful as that awkwardness can be to watch, it doesn't last forever.   I could listen to her talk until my ears bleed, knowing how much she needs to just get her thoughts out of her head.  I could gently lead her to the water time and time again knowing it might be ages before she is comfortable enough to drink from it.  I could cut her sandwiches into funny shapes and play her songs on my guitar knowing those will likely be among her favorite memories when she grows up.  I could give her slack when she makes mistakes knowing she probably already feels way worse about them than I could ever make her feel with a guilt trip.  I could brush her hair, count her freckles, and remind her that every single day I love her more than the day before, so much so that when we touch my heart feels as though it might explode. 

 

Of course given all of those things, the little girl who is just like me, would most likely grow up to be the mother just like me.  I know, because I had parents who did things just like that.  Although I swore I would never say this, I hope when she grows up, she is blessed with a daughter just like her.



 

He Was Supposed to Play Football

Our youngest son was placed on continuous oxygen at five months old after struggling with a difficult respiratory infection that he just could not bounce back from.  What was supposed to be a treatment that remained within the confines of the hospital ended up following us home.  Weeks turned into months as we were promised he just needed a bit more time to recover.  The tiny cannula that nested inside of his button nose was a constant reminder that the life we had just brought into this world, our solid healthy looking baby boy, was far more fragile than we had thought.

Those weeks that became months soon became a year and as we met more hospitalizations and appointments with his doctors it became more and more clear that his little lungs were weaker than we had first hoped.  It became more clear that the life we had anticipated for him was going to be far from anything we could have considered fair.

As his first birthday approached and after all of my expectations for his quick healing had passed, I pointedly asked, during a rather difficult appointment, if they thought our son would ever be able to thrive off of his oxygen.  His doctor looked at me, patted my leg, and said "not all little boys are made to play football mom." The words that were meant to soothingly skirt around the truth struck me sharp like a dagger.  I was quiet for the rest of the appointment.  A large lump stood in my throat working as a flood gate to hold back the tears.  The drive home was long and somber, the humming of his oxygen concentrator drowning out all of my rational emotional thought.

He was supposed to play football.

I didn't speak about it for days.  In fact I barely spoke for days.  I was lost within my own thoughts, ones that I could barely sort out.  I should have known better; nothing in this life is guaranteed.  We already had to learn through our daughter's illness just how fragile life can be.  Certainly in the grand scheme of things sports were not important.  Perhaps sports wouldn't even be his thing anyway, maybe he would be the next stand up comedian, or an artist.  I was obviously being silly.

Then the guilt started to eat away at me for having these thoughts at all.  Shouldn't I just be grateful that I was blessed to have him?  What kind of mother worries about a future of sports when her son can barely even breathe and eat at the same time? I knew every single moment with him was a gift and here I was wasting that time worrying about something that simply should not have mattered. My mind was a battlefield, and I was quickly losing ground.

When I finally could not stand the sound of my own internal bashing anymore I picked up the phone. I dialed one of the only people I knew who could listen to me try and spit out the emotional wrecking ball that banged around somewhere between my two ears.  Before my dear friend could even say hello, I broke down into a sob that only too much coffee and days inside my head could buy me.  Quickly and without regard for what she might be doing I blurted out "he was supposed to play football!"  It took a few moments and stifled sobs for me to realize the other end of the phone was uncomfortably quiet.  "Hello," I sniffed."

"You know this isn't about football," she said, in pointed school teacher voice.

"What?"

"This whole thing.  It isn't about football, or any other sport.  You already know that.  It is about you grieving over the life you thought he would have and fearing the outcome of his future, and that's ok. Nobody anticipates that they are going to give birth to a child that is sick, it is ok to be sad about that. It is ok to grieve for the things you thought he would have.  That is only natural.  Take your moment, your moments, trust me there will be more, own them, and move on."

She was right, in every way really, it was not about football.  I was grieving for him, the baby who had a medical supply bag instead of a diaper bag, who had an apnea monitor instead of a baby monitor, the baby who had more medical supplies and wires than binkies and bottles, and the future that had become so unclear. It was about the loss of a dream.  It was about my concern over his ability to thrive in a world that he did not seem compatible with, and the doctors who could not fix him.  It was a love so strong my heart could literally explode, and the fear of what might happen to me, if something happened to him.


Years have passed since that dreary day and our son has grown into an amazing four year old boy.  His lungs still stink at being lungs, his mitochondrial disease has made sure of that, but he has found his pace in this world.  Today he grabbed a football and my heartstrings as he asked me and his big brother to go out and play.  Memories I had hidden deep inside bubbled up to the surface as I watched my rosey cheeked boy wobble around with a wide eyed grin on his face trying to play keep away from his brother, happily failing, as they both plummeted to the ground.  His laughter echoing in my ears still now hours after he has been tucked into bed for the night.

You see none of this was about football, not even a little bit, but watching him today, having that moment just filled me with so much joy and hope.  It reminded me that his life was never ours to plan from the start, but right now I have faith that that's okay.

Desires of the Heart

"You can have anything of his you would like," my grandmother said as we stood in the doorway of her bedroom.  It had been a month since my grandfather had passed away and yet I still expected him to be there.  Everything looked the same.  Not even the air had been disturbed and still, it was disturbing.

I sat down on my grandfather's side of the bed.  The covers were pulled up and tucked under his pillow, crisp, military style.  It was as if the bed had never been lived in, just the way they liked to keep it.  His reading glasses were carefully atop of the newspaper he had been reading the night of his stroke.  I shivered slightly, feeling the lump within my throat beginning to develop.  My grandmother sat next to me, placing her hand on my lap.

"Go ahead," she repeated.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the things that I would want of his.  The things I wanted, I knew I could never have.  I wanted the last can of beer that ever touched his lips, the motor oil that stained all of his undershirts.  I wanted to have the first robin that he saw every spring, the one that told him summer was soon to come.  I wanted the handprints of flour he left on his navy blue work pants, every time he baked.  I wanted the last pink chocolate he had eaten and the box it came in.  I wanted the very last breath he took on this side of Heaven.  I wanted him.

I cried the same single tear that I wiped off my grandfather's cheek the day he finally let go, letting it linger, a reflection of the pain that resonated so deep inside of me.

"Don't cry sweetheart." She kissed the top of my head.

I leaned into her, absorbing the warmth of her I so desperately needed to feel.  "This is so hard. There is so much of him that I want, but if I can't have him I am not sure any of it means anything."

"It means everything," she said softly.  "There is a little piece of him in everything still here.  There is not one thing in this room that does not make me think of him." Her strong soothing voice began to waiver.  "You just have to find the thing that speaks to you in that way." She gave me a gentle squeeze before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her.

I thought deeply about what she said.  I got up slowly and walked to his dresser.  With conviction I opened his top drawer.  Carefully folded in the corner was a stack of white-cotton handkerchiefs.  Right away I knew this was my heart's prize.  I took one out and shut the drawer.  I rubbed it against my cheek.  I wanted to feel what he felt everytime he touched his "hanky" to his skin.  It brushed me softly, like a feather in the wind.

I thought about how he always had one with him, accompanying him in his back pocket.  I thought about how it contained every bead of sweat from his forehead, the echo of all the hard work he had done for his family.  Not only was it a part of him, but he was a part of it.

In my hands was the link between; him and I, now and than, life and death.

A Letter to my Son

Dear Son,

You came into this world content and aware, as if you were armed with a secret we did not know. I think back to the first moments of your arrival and the weeks that followed and often wonder if this somehow is the truth.  You came out so calm, peaceful, eyes glaring into mine, as if you knew exactly who it was you were looking for.  You took right to the breast as if you had done it before, as if this world was not new to you at all.  It was almost as if you knew I needed those moments of peace, those days of normalcy, instances of total perfection, before the truth about your life would rapidly be revealed to us.

As the days unfolded the layers that masked the hidden truth underneath your sweet perfection began to give away.  Deep below the surface of everything we ever dreamed your life would be, lied a story that had already been written for you, the words so deeply etched into the pages they could never be erased.  The reality so painful it shook the very ground we stood on, splitting it at the seams, a mirror image of the damage within our hearts.

You were only five days old when you first started to show signs of trouble.  We wanted so badly to wish it all away, but it is hard to ignore a burp cloth stained with blood, and a baby whose lips are tinged with blue.  Your breathing would become more and more difficult as the year went on, but the thing about you is that no matter how little air there seemed to be in the room, you always seemed to find my eyes.  You knew I needed you to, so I could find my breath as well.

I have watched you overcome with more determination than anyone I have ever come across.  Your quiet fighting spirit has brought you back from the brink of many disasters.  Your huge heart keeps me grounded and fills up even the cracks of the broken pieces within mine.

I lost a small piece of my heart every time we thought mitochondrial disease might touch your life.  Your were just a small being within my body the day we found out your sister might have it, which would mean you could too.  You were not even a month old and had already spent nights struggling within the hospital the night we found out your sister did in fact have it.  You were just a year old laying floppy on my lap wrapping your unclothed toes around your oxygen tubing slowly kicking it back and forth, the moment we finally heard the words we dreaded hearing for so long, "your son also has mitochondrial disease."  Each time, a piece of my heart forever broken.

Although we feared the worst of what this might mean you have continuously proven that you will simply refuse to read your story as written.  You simply refuse to let your disease define you.  I can not explain the tremendous joy I have felt in watching you accomplish things that people have thought might be an impossible.  You my son make the impossible, possible.  You create hope from hopeless situations.  You make every single dream worth living.

You have taught me so incredibly much just about how life should be lived.  I have seen you get up and brush off the dirt refusing to give up and give in more times than I can even count.  Even when the world has told you it is ok to stop trying you tell them it's not.  And maybe, maybe that is the secret you came into this world with, my love.  Maybe that is the tremendous gift you were given that most of us do not have, the perseverance it takes to navigate a world as big as this one with challenges that just do not seem compatible with life here.

To the world you may not be a superhero, but to me my sweet son, you are and always will be mine.

Dream Land

     "Momma will you rub my back until I fall asleep," I asked as she was about to leave the room.  Every night it was the same question, and never had she denied me the pacifying pleasure of her touch.  She turned out the light and returned to my side. The bed sunk slightly as she made herself comfortable.

     "Only until the count of one hundred," she said.  This was the rule.  I turned to lay flat on my belly.  She pushed the wisps of hair away from my face and kissed me gently.  The moisture on my cheek evaporated slowly, like a puddle on a sunny day.  The smell of her perfume wrapped around me keeping me warmer than the blanket she had tucked me in.  The visible corner of my mouth curled slowly into a smile.  "Close your eyes," she whispered gently. The sound of her voice tiptoed within my ears.  I pressed my eyes together, expressing an eagerness of the earning for her touch.  She straightened out my shirt, ridding it of all it's creases.  When everything was perfect, she placed the warmth of her hand upon my back.

     "One, two, three..." I relaxed my eyes.  The circles she made on my back were in perfect rhythm with her counting.  Her voice the sweetest symphony of lullaby.  As I began to fade into a world of slumber, her voice and touch faded too.  The higher the number, the further I traveled from reality.  I wanted nothing more than to take her with me, to hold her hand and run across the clouds, to slide down the biggest rainbow and land in a giant pot of gold.  I wanted to take her to a place where we could play all night without disruption, a world made of chocolate, where animals were our friends, and ate straight from our hands.  "98, 99, 100."  She spoke softly as to not disturb my journey.  "Meet you in Dream Land."

                                                               **************

    "Can you hold my hand Momma," she asked as she writhed slightly, obviously uncomfortable.

    "Sure sweetheart." I had spent the better half of our month in the hospital sleeping beside her.  She had been quite ill and wanted to be held and coddled.  When she wasn't having seizures or outbreaks of pain and nausea, she was simply fearing the time when those things would come again.  I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her tight to my body.  "Close your eyes baby girl."

     "I'm afraid," she said her bottom lip quivering, tears brimming, magnifying the flecks of stormy grey within her sky blue eyes.

    "Mommy is here, there is nothing to be afraid of."  A statement, I only wished could have been true.

    "What if when I go to sleep, I don't wake up again?" She looked me straight into my eyes, penetrating them deeply as if she was trying to read my thoughts.

    "What would make you think such..."

    "I heard what the doctor said this morning."  The tears that had built a barrier within her came flooding down all at once.  I pulled her tighter.  I wanted so desperately to protect her from all of this, to take it from her and put it on myself, but I knew I couldn't, because if I had been able to, I already would have.  We talked for a while about the unfortunate conversation she never should have heard.  We talked about how I wished I could erase it from her mind, so that she could go on being a kid and do kid things, without the fear of mortality, or anything else that does not belong to the mind of a child.  Unfortunately that would be the first of many moments that would take part of that privilege of childhood away and replace it with the untimely wisdom and understanding that this world is not always what we want it to be, what we hope it to be.

    "Do you want to meet in Dream Land," I asked, drying her eyes.  She looked up, gently sniffing, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

    "Where?"

    "It is a special place that we can only meet when we are asleep.  We have to pick a place, close our eyes and try real hard to imagine it.  It is very special and only few people know about it.  I used to meet my mother there when I was little, and maybe if you try real hard, we could meet there tonight?"  I brushed the freshly fallen hair from her damp eyes.  She looked stunned to not have known that such a place existed.

     "Can it be anything I like?"

     "Of course."

     "Can I bring others there," she asked scooching up slightly in her bed.

     "Only if they keep it secret of course."

     "Is there sickness there?"

     "No, of course not.  Only what you want, nothing else.  If something else tries to follow, you just tell it to go away, and it will have to listen, because it is your land." She smiled and lied back on the bed.  She liked the idea of being in charge, of not hurting, of not being sick.  She rolled in to snuggle as she often did as she was falling asleep.

     "Mommy?"

     "Yes, love," I said, as I rubbed the wrinkles out of the back of her shirt.

     "When I do go, you know, forever.  Can I stay there, in Dream Land, so you know where to find me?"  I pulled her in tighter, tears now filling my eyes.

     "Come on now love, lets go to Dream Land and see what adventures we can find."

     

Weathering the Storm

She laid back on my lap, shirtless and limp.  Her torso pressed against mine.  Her skin warm under my hands as I rest them on her soft baby skin, trying to keep her from slipping off my lap.  We'd been at the doctor's office for hours at an appointment we had anticipated for well over a year.  Here we were now sitting inside a small cold office, no idea what to expect, no idea what was quietly waiting for us inside pandora's box.

The doctor, a small elderly woman, silently examined every part of my sweet girl.  She looked at her in ways I had never seen anyone look at my child, overturning every piece and part of her until her body was memorized as deeply as the medical records that sat before us.  When she was satisfied with her assessment she stood up and walked across the room.  She faced the wall for a few moments again silent.  I was still unsure what to expect, but the moment was starting to build within me.  It had been clear over the first three years of our daughter's life that something was simply not allowing her body to do what bodies should naturally do, but all of our paths to hopeful answers had only led to dead ends and more questions. My expectation upon arrival was for only more of the same.

A few moments passed before she returned to where we sat.  She placed her hand upon my daughter's unclothed thigh and gave it a gentle pat.  "Here it was," I thought to myself.  Another specialist with no idea, just a patronizing pat and a lollipop for the little one.    Just as I was about to dress my sweet girl and pack up our diaper bag, she placed her hand on my shoulder.  She looked me in the eye, sending an instant chill down my spine.

"I think your daughter might be suffering from something called mitochondrial disease."  She said, her gaze still burning into my eyes.  I stared for a moment, unsure of what was going on, unsure of what to say, unsure what it was she was even saying.

"I'm sorry what?" I turned my sweet baby around to face me, pressing her cheek to my shoulder, as if protecting her from hearing the words "disease" could somehow stop her from having one.  She began to whimper slightly from the sudden change of atmosphere that now filled the room.

"Mitochondrial disease.  It is a metabolic disease.  It is quite complicated in nature, difficult to test for, but your daughter has a lot of symptoms of the type of progression and organ system dysfunction we tend to see.  We will want to start running some panels of labs, I will give you a letter for the emergency room and..."

"How sure are you that she has this?" I cut in.

She paused, taking a moment to think, quieting her voice.  "As sure as I can be without the testing."

My mind trailed off.  I didn't understand what any of this meant.  I had never heard of this disease, ever. The last time I had heard the word mitochondria was in biology class in high school and I was too busy passing notes back and forth with my boyfriend to even color the cell diagram in correctly. What could this thing even be? If I hadn't heard of it by now how bad could it possibly be?

"Mommy, go, now!" My sweet girl began arching her back trying with all her might now to break the tension and silence, to go back from where we once came.

"Hang on baby," I said adjusting her again on my lap.  I was trying so hard to formulate some kind of question, to reason with myself to say something that would put together my thoughts and make sense of this, but how do you know where to begin when you have no idea where you are even going?

"It's genetic." She said cutting the silence.  "It is passed with a twenty-five to fifty percent rate, depending on the inheritance type." The air got even thicker.  I still didn't know what we were dealing with, but I knew a few things.  I knew my daughter was struggling and quite a bit.  I knew her doctors were worried.  I knew that her body systems were getting stressed more and more as she got older and that she was picking up more and more systemic problems every year, and I knew this doctor was saying it could happen again.  Then it hit me where she was going with this, and her words hit me so hard the wind knocked clear out of me.  "You told our genetic counselor that you are expecting again, and that you are in your first trimester.  We don't like telling parents these types of things, but we can get a rush on some of her testing so that you and your husband can consider aborting if she does have it."

I couldn't breathe.  I put my hand on my stomach and opened my mouth.  I tried to make words and couldn't, the air falling short of my lips.  I pulled my daughter a little tighter as my heart began to beat faster.  Her words emotionally threatened not only the life of my unborn baby, but also my sweet girl, because it was at that very moment I realized just how serious this unknown disease must truly be.  For a doctor to even consider suggesting that as parents we question the ethics of possibly bringing another child into this world who may have the same disease, I knew we were facing possible devastation with not only one, but two children.



The answer would come later that year for our daughter.  She did in fact have mitochondrial disease, so does our son who was born just seven months after we heard those words leave the doctors lips.  It is every bit as devastating a disease as we could have possibly imagined, only more.

There was a lot that doctor could have explained to us that day, but she never could have told us the truth of it.  She never could have told us that we would spend so many sleepless nights holding them in hospital rooms wondering how many more birthdays they would get, and that we would be bellowing from the rooftops when we indeed got to celebrate again.  She never could have told us that we would spend months working tirelessly on developing skills that other children would learn naturally, only to watch them lose them again after simple illnesses.  She never could have told us that we would have an even more tremendous hope and joy of seeing them achieve them again, and the overwhelming fear that they wouldn't.  She never could have told us how we would learn to renegotiate every single priority, expectation, appreciation until we would find ourselves discovering unimaginable joy in just the feeling of our child's skin, and that we would look at everything they experience like they are seeing the Ocean for the first time.  She never could have told us the sorrow we would feel as our friend's children were laid to rest, as we watched them weep with empty arms and broken hearts.  She never could have told us the fear we would have knowing that one day this beast would also likely claim the lives of our children. I suppose she could have told us, but we never would have understood.

Mitochondrial disease is a constant weathering of the storm.  It is roaring winds and weeping waters. It has a cruel and destructive path.  It has been dark and raining for far too long.  We are waiting for a ray of light, a glimpse of a rainbow, the sun peeking from behind the clouds.  We are standing here with an umbrella made of prayers and only hope to keep us floating, waiting desperately on a cure.

Forever

She took his hand gently and whispered, "come with me," tugging him a little, his feet unmoving.

"Don't want to," he replied shyly, nervous-like, feet shifting, staring at the ground.

"Come on, don't be scared. There is nothing out there. Sissy is with you." She gave his chubby little hand a gentle tug again.

"Don't want to," he repeated.

She looked intensly into his big grey eyes. They were as deep as the sea and filled to the brim with emotion. Scanning back and forth from one eye to the other she tried to read him like a book. "Really buddy it will be just fine, I will hold your hand the whole time. I'm not going anywhere."

He paused and thought for a moment. He stared at the ground and waved his foot back and forth in the dry straw like grass. "Sissy stay?"

"Yes."

"Sissy stay, forever?"

She paused suddenly as if the word forever had struck her somehow. She stared over his head into the distance, as he stared into her eyes waiting for the reassurance he so desperately needed. When he could no longer take the time that was passing, he gave her shirt a gentle tug to remind her that he was there. She looked down at him and smiled. "Yes, sissy will always be with you, no matter what."

He smiled and reached out his hand. She tenderly took it. Together they walked off, hand in hand. with a new found reassurance that no matter what they would always have each other.  

A Letter to my Daughter

Dear Daughter,

How quickly these years have passed since you went from a whispered prayer, to a tender soul burrowed beneath my heart, to a small being tenderly emerging into this world taking your own first breaths. You were always quiet; observing, wide eyed, and unsure.  You never cried, cooed, or whimpered.  We had to learn the early you from only the fervent emotion that radiated from your eyes.  As the time passed on the silence of your demeanor created both a peaceful tenance, but also overwhelmed us at times; like any parent would desire, we needed some indication that you knew we were there. We needed to know we somehow stood out from the rest of the world that seemed to overwhelm you into silence.  Little did we know you were just measuring the world, calculating the perfect time to make yourself known; silently rehearsing for the opening night of your Broadway debut, a one act show starring you.

Finding your voice was a struggle, but when you did, boy you did.  We watched in a mirrored reflection of your own frustration as you discovered an audible shriek that was to define every expression you had. Your emotion filled eyes were the only help to us then too, like a beacon to your soul, a sure blessing from God, for without the light inside of them we would surely have been lost trying to find you.

I will never forget the day you discovered the words you had been absorbing from the moment you broke into this world.  With a courageous roar we watched the gates that held back the expression of your discoveries fall to the ground as you pressed your eyes together, accentuated your larger than life heart-shaped lips, and angrily shouted "bubbles," fearing that your Speech Pathologist would leave without letting you see them if you did not show her you could indeed use spoken language.  From that day forward we never had to fear again that you would reserve the words you kept locked away. Your quota for spoken words on a daily basis is now far above what I can keep track.

You love to ask us what we know and tell us what you have discovered.  Your speech is constantly overflowing with data and lessons that are both academically and spiritually infused.  When reminded that sometimes there are places in this world where it is best not to speak, you often tell me you only talk when it is most important and that there should be no such place where verbal sharing is inappropriate.

Even as your vocabulary grows to an unrecordable measure I find I can still reach you better through communicating with your eyes.  Perhaps it is because this is where I first found you all those years ago, or perhaps it is because, somewhere, lost behind all of the knowledge and theories your words so often speak, is something more important your soul has left to tell; something still lost inside looking to find it's way out.  In your quietest of moments is when I hear your eyes speak the loudest.  Your gaze cuts me like no other, sometimes painful, as if you are literally trying to etch the imprint of all your unspoken fears and desires into the depths of me.   Like putting together a jigsaw puzzle and being handed one piece at a time, so is the road map to your being.  I know in time I will find you there, one piece at a time, and when I do our souls will embrace for they have been together all along, from the very first whispered prayer to the moment you burrowed beneath my heart.

The Rhythm of Life

I watched her today as she held the jump rope, swung it over her head, jumped, and got herself tangled before her feet even hit the ground again.  I watched her as she repeated this process over and over without wavering.  She took a deep breath and with careful calculation tried her best to make even the smallest change that could bring about the positive outcome she was looking to achieve; that one small move that would correct her rhythm and make all her work worth it.  She never did jump over the rope and yet she succeeded still.

She has learned over time that life is not a black and white measure of one's success.   She has had to learn the hard way that we don't always physically see the equal outcomes of getting from something what you put into something, but with that she has also learned that mentally and emotionally she gets what she gives, and so she gives it her all.  She tries with all her might in everything she does, every single ounce of everything she has is poured into her cup of life.

When she was finished jumping rope she looked at me and smiled.

"You will get it.  Just keep practicing." I said gently.

"I know," she panted as she wiped the sweat from her brow.  "It will be quite easy really, I just have to get my feet off the ground at the right time."

"Such is life," I thought to myself.  The only danger is letting fear keep your feet planted on the ground.  We all just need to find our rhythm.