Her swing is the daily coveted spot, and come spring, I check the forecast nightly to see when she’ll be able to assume her position and do some composing on her keyboard.
Yesterday was the day.
Finally Outside
Though it was warm, I still dressed the Queen in pants and a long-sleeved shirt. She didn’t mind. Her excitement built as I tied her shoes. “Swing!” she signed. “Yes, you get to swing!” I signed & said back.
She squealed and flapped those arms as fast as they could go, so much that I had to tell her to calm down so I could walk her outside. Once on the porch, she turned, backed up, sat on the swing and immediately signed “music”. I already had her pink, sparkly keyboard tucked under my arm—Omma was one step ahead of her.
The Perfect Tune
Without missing a beat, she pushed off and began swinging—high—higher—higher—and turned her keyboard vertical so the speaker would be right against her ear. Her thumb pushed the melody button madly, each tune playing only a note or two until she pressed for the next one. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” began playing.
Success—it played in its entirety.
From age 6 to about 10, she had a small “jam box” (my 80’s friends know what I’m talking about) with Elmo’s face on it. It, too, played a variety of songs. Eleven to be exact. But her favorite was “Frere Jacques”. Each quick-press of her thumb created a cacophony of sounds until “Frere Jacques” began playing. For some reason that tune pleased her more than the others. And now, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” has the same effect. For added enjoyment, I’ll sing along…and sway…and provide an over-the-top theatrical performance as the melody plays in her ear. It elicits grins and laughter, and often a nodding of her head which is my cue to do it again.
So I do.
(Thank goodness she’s over the “I’m a Little Teapot” song for now).
Lost in her Music
As she played, I sat on the step and trimmed the woody stems from the lavender bushes. Occasionally, she’d say, “Omma!” and want me to turn to look at her. She would have her keyboard on her lap to free both of her hands, her right arm would be in the air above her head, her left hand strumming against her right arm, playing her air-guitar accompaniment in her best Eddie Van Halen-esque fashion. Funny how, instead of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, I heard “Eruption” as she played.
Her music. Her swing. Her audience of one. They bring her joy. And I’m privileged to be witness to it. And part of it.
As expected, she wanted to come off the porch and into the direct sun. She signed “stand up” then “go”, and I knew where she was headed—the sidewalk. She sat on the warm concrete, keyboard on her lap, and began playing. Delight seemed to overtake her as she realized she created a sharp, dark shadow. She turned—positioned herself for the best shadow effect–and began conducting her orchestra.
Discovering her shadow
Arms outstretched, overhead, down low, flap up, flap down, raise the roof. When she realized she couldn’t see her hand-clapping shadows, she turned 45 degrees so she could. And resumed. She even incorporated her legs now. Up, down, up down, then clap clap clap. Her music had long since stopped, but the melody in her head continued. The sunshine, the warmth, the reply from her shadows, all brought contentment and joy. And not just to her.
Conducting the orchestra
The Overflow
I never tire of these scenes. This tiny, 90lb, 5-feet-tall young lady lives life largely. She lives it with reckless abandon to the joy that bubbles in her soul. That effervescence elicits the same response from me. It reminds me to stop. Enjoy. Notice. And sing another round.
Take me out to the sunshine
Take me out to the yard
Bring me my keyboard and watch me play
I don’t care if we stay here all day…
Omma is thankful to have such a sweet reminder in her life.
My husband’s work car had been idle for 2 months and was in desperate need of a good washing and some TLC. I arrived home from work at the farmers market with energy to spare and wanted to do something productive.
“Want me to wash your truck?” I asked.
“Well, the White Car (she’s so old & reliable she deserves caps when referring to her) needs it badly.”
I looked over by the garage & saw what he meant–the grass was higher around her tires and instead of white, she now looked like a mottled grey. I was ashamed of my neglect.
“Oh yes, I’m washing the Grand Am.”
Husband started her right up & drove her into the bottom driveway while I retrieved the bucket, soap, scrub brush, and every other apparatus I thought I may need in her transformation. The music was playing on my blue tooth speaker, the sun was shining, and I was ready to get it done.
I’m going to add a side note here: I love washing cars. I love clean cars. I love cars. No, my husband isn’t horrible for “letting me” do it instead of him doing it. In truth, he never has an option. I wash the cars in the family. And I love it. Few things bring me as much satisfaction as seeing a car so clean and tires so black and knowing I did that.
But I digress.
I begin washing, husband sits on his tractor observing. Three minutes in to it I realize I’m going to have to use a toothbrush to clean around the trim, emblems, reflectors, and front & back glass before I do a full-body wash. Yeah, she was that dirty. <hangs head in shame>
Without saying anything, I go inside to get my detailing toothbrush. When I come back outside, husband says, “Aww…the car doesn’t need all that.”
“OF COURSE SHE DOES! What? Because it’s 20 years old and a “work car”, does that mean I shouldn’t show her as much care and attention as I would my Lincoln? Of course not! She deserves just as much—if not more—attention and care! She’s older! She’s weathered! She’d earned it!”
And I carried on.
Husband laughed & shook his head because he realized to whom he was speaking.
Attention to Detail
As Van Morrison played in the background, and the toothbrush flicked out all those bits of grime & dirt that my car wash mitt wouldn’t get, the thought occurred to me—isn’t that how some of the elderly in our society are treated?
Those who are older–those who have “more miles” on them so to speak–whose bodies are starting to rust a bit–do we look at them and think, “They don’t need that much attention—they’re old”?
Are they not as valuable?
Not as revered?
Not as appreciated?
I think that’s why I love seeing a 95-year young lady with red fingernails and learning that the activities director at her assisted living home painted them for her. Even better is learning that her great gran-daughter did it. Or seeing her with pretty pink lipstick and a touch of rouge (that’s what ladies over 70 always call it!)
My Mom and I smile as we share stories of “elderly encounters”. It seems inevitably she and I are asked for assistance while we’re out in public. Perhaps to reach a peanut butter jar. Or to read an expiration date on a package of bacon. Or carry an umbrella while they traverse across the parking lot with their walker.
Sometimes they just want to talk—and at length. I made two good friends through chance encounters at Fresh Market in Roanoke—one was a beautiful Italian lady who passed away fewer than a year after we met, the other a stylish, retired teacher who said I reminded her of her daughter who’d passed away a few years before. We became pen pals with the occasional phone call. She’s 93 now.
I remember combing my Pop-Aw’s hair for him about a year before he passed away. He couldn’t lift his arms enough to comb his hair as neatly as he liked, so I offered to do it. I even ran the electric shaver over his face and neck to help prepare him for his day. He always liked to look his best—no matter what the occasion. When I was done, I handed him the mirror to make sure he approved. He did.
I recall the October day I rubbed my Mom-Aw’s knees with Icy Hot. She was riddled with cancer, and it had moved to the bone. Her knees hurt. Mine didn’t. So I knelt, and rubbed her knees, lingering as we talked. I could tell she didn’t want me to stop, and honestly, I didn’t either. I wanted to extend that moment as long as I could, bringing relief to her in the only way possible, while talking about things that would make her belly laugh & throw her head back. That old, familiar laugh…..
She passed 3 months later.
While my car is just an inanimate object, I realized something out there in the heat of the sun while washing it. Attention to detail—it matters. Those “little” things. The toothbrush on the trim reminded me of combing Pop-Aw’s hair and rubbing Mom-Aw’s hurting knees. The little time it takes, but the difference it makes. Yes, I will take care of the older things in my possession, but I’ll take even greater care of the older souls in my life. Because here’s the thing–things can be replaced. Loved ones cannot.
Regardless of whether it’s an aged parent, or grandparent, or friend, or even stranger in the supermarket, take the time to notice. Be available. Listen to them. Smile. Be interested. Show them they’re just as important and valued and needed as they always were—or perhaps even more so.
May I always be conscientious of the details that need attention, and may I never be too busy to tend to them.
We set out on a Tuesday morning, headed north on I-77 for most of the trip. In one vehicle was Mom, Dad, Robbie, the Queen, & me. Meeting us at the hotel from the D.C. area were my brother & aunt Betty.
On the agenda was Moundsville, the West Virginia Penitentiary, downtown Wheeling & Independence Hall, Oglebay Park, and the suspension bridge on Wednesday, and Golden Palace on our way out Thursday. Lots to cram in to one day and one morning, but we did it. I have 854 photos to prove it (no worries—all won’t be posted here.)
All of us are native West Virginians except for the Queen, but she is by proxy. None of us had ever traveled to Wheeling, which is in the northern panhandle. You can create the shape of West Virginia by holding your hand in the air, palm facing you, thumb out, middle finger up, pointer, ring, & pinky fingers down. Wheeling would be at the very top part of your middle finger/northern panhandle. If you tried this, hopefully no one is sitting in front of you, or else you’ll have some explaining to do.
But I digress.
Like clowns in a clown car, all 7 of us piled into the mini-van and set out Wednesday morning (my sweet little mom sat in the very back with my brother and me—bless her heart.) First stop—Moundsville.
Pre-historic musings
Most things historical I’ve even been to have been—at the oldest—250-300 years old. The Grave Creek burial mound was begun somewhere between 250 – 150 B. C. by the Adena people. So when Jesus was across the pond feeding 5000 with some fish & bread, or calming storms & healing the sickly folk, the Adena people’s culture was already on its way out—had already made its mark in what would eventually be called “Wild, Wonderful West Virginia.”
Wow.
From below, I looked to the top & wondered what prompted the Adena people to choose that spot—that particular spot out of all the land around. After traversing a few hundred spiral steps that led me to the top, the 360* view offered a theory. It appeared this was smack-dab in the middle of the valley (I’m in WV, so I have to use our terms and descriptions,) and the view was beautiful. I imagined no roads, no houses, no power lines and bridges and 7-11’s. Indeed, whatever the Adena people’s belief in the afterlife, certainly this was their way of getting their loved ones to heaven just a bit quicker.
It felt reverent. Peaceful. I could have taken in the mountain breezes and soaked in the rays of the sun for hours. What a grand piece of history to experience.
Who knew that a giant mound of earth could blow my mind?
The museum was awesome, too. From Ron Hinkle glass, Homer Laughlin china, Marble King, and Pete Ballard fashion dolls—to dioramas of miniature Adena peoples building huts and killing mastodons and replicas of bones & authentic fossils found in the area on which I stood—all of it was not just educational but fascinating.
And of course, purchases from the gift shop were necessary. A blue “Grave Creek Mound” shirt for the Queen with the state of WV proudly displayed on it, a geode for me to crack with a hammer in hopes of finding crystals, and a WV-shaped magnet with “Grave Creek Mound” on it to display on our fridge were placed on the counter and rang up by a fellow Wonder Woman loving West Virginia gal (kindred spirits, yes?) Our first destination didn’t disappoint.
Next stop—across the street to the West Virginia State Penitentiary. Now, I’ve never really been fascinated by prisons, but this place had 3 things going for it. Location (West Virginia—duh,) architecture, and history. We didn’t expect to do the tour since it was 90 minutes long. We did, however, pass between the barbed wire fence and through the heavy doors to visit the now-gift shop.
It was creepy & cool all at the same time. The first thing you see when you go through the door is “Old Sparky,” the electric chair. Nearly 100 prisoners were either electrocuted or hanged here—which brings the creepy factor. This place was built just after the Civil War and is on the National Historic Register—which brings the cool factor.
West Virginia State Penitentiary
Old Sparky
It opened in 1866 and closed in 1995. In the gift shop, you could see artifacts in glass cases that included a rope that hanged the condemned, a letter from Charles Manson asking to be transferred there, and batons and uniforms of guards to name a few. Huge combo of creepy/cool there, too. (Sidenote: I noticed that while Charles Manson’s handwriting wasn’t terrible, his grammar & spelling were.)
Site number 3—downtown Wheeling, specifically Independence Hall.
Independence Hall, Wheeling, WV
Now, this place absolutely filled me with awe. Our home state was born here. We were enthusiastically greeted outside by a tour guide who was full of smiles and information. Upon entering, we met yet another lady who eagerly welcomed us into the historical site. We first went downstairs to watch a 15-minute movie that was a recreation of how it all unfolded. Made in 1977, the movie had that film-y sound even though it was now on DVD. It was just the 7 of us who sat in the dark on the church-like pews, watching on video the way our state came to be. I learned a lot in that quarter of an hour, information I’d never known in my 46 years. I’ll be completely honest here—I got choked up. The loyalty to my home state runs deep, as it does with most West Virginia natives. Seeing how it all came to be caused my roots of loyalty to run even deeper, my pride to swell even more (didn’t think that was even possible,) and my appreciation of West Virginia and our people to heighten.
After the movie, we made our way up to the first, then second, then third floors, relishing all the history and architecture and thankful for the preservation that has taken place. If I lived in Wheeling, this would totally be a place where I’d volunteer.
After a quick lunch, we headed to Oglebay Resort (locals seemed to pronounce it “Oglebee.”) Regardless of pronunciation, it’s beautiful. It was originally owned by a frontiersman named Silas Zane in the late 1700’s. After changing hands a few times, Earl Oglebay purchased it in 1900 and spent 25 years creating the beautiful estate and sparing no expense. He passed away in 1926 and willed it to the people of Wheeling, so long as they used it for the public.
We didn’t spend a lot of time there—just stopped to look at some gardens, have an ice cream, and buy a couple souvenirs. Oglebay Resort showed us a lot of deer, vacationers, flowers, and of course, provided that cleansing mountain breeze that seems to be unique to my home state.
Fountain & gardens at Oglebay Resort, Wheeling, WV
My only regrets are that I wasn’t there at 11:00 to visit the zoo, and that I didn’t bring any closed-toe shoes. Why? I could have had a hands-on experience with a two-toed sloth. Yes. A sloth. My favorite animal ever. I could barely look at the zoo sign when driving by it because I knew that just down the road there was a sloth.
After this full day, Tim, Robbie & I ventured out on our own and the rest of the crew chilled out at the hotel. The three of us were on the hunt for two things—a spot for me to get night photos of the suspension bridge, and a place to eat. The plan? Find the spot in the daylight. Go eat. Come back after dark. Take photos. Go back to the hotel.
The suspension bridge was awesome. On our way to Wheeling, I said I was eager to go across it. The tour guide at Independence Hall changed my mind, though. When we told her we were going to it, she quickly and emphatically shared that she has been across it once, and never again. A bridge built in 1849 of course didn’t have to pass all the regulations we have today. I quickly changed my mind about crossing it when I learned….
….there’s a weight limit of 2 tons
and
…vehicles must maintain a lengthy distance between them.
Why would they do that if there wasn’t a question about its integrity?
So, I decided I’d remain safely on the shore and take my photos, and cross the large, new, safe bridge that runs parallel to this old, historical, swaying, spooky, scary, unstable one.
Tim, Robbie, & I quickly find a place right by the entrance of the bridge where I’ll be able to set up my tripod and get some long-exposure shots of the bridge & river. Satisfied with the location, I tell Tim we can go on & find an eatery.
I hop in the backseat of his compact car and we pull out. Tim turns left (it’s a one-way street,) then right, then left again. Back toward where we were.
“Um, that road was one way, Tim. We won’t be able to do anything but make another circle.”
He continues on.
Robbie turns and looks at me with an evil grin as Tim drives up to the bridge’s red light (remember what I said about the limits?) There was nowhere to go but across.
My heart sinks, my stomach burns, and doing what all photographers do, I grab my camera. I remove the lens cap and let the two men in the front know that when they find my camera at the bottom of the Ohio River, they’ll see the last photos I ever took. The light turns green. I put the viewfinder up to my eye, and begin screaming, “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE! OH MY GOSH, WE’RE GONNA DIE!”
Click
Click
Click
We’re All Gonna Die!
I continued taking photos through the bird-doody-covered windshield.
The car felt like it was doing mini-fish tails as we rode across the uneven iron surface. My heart pounded. I continued clicking. By golly, if this was my demise, I was going to document it.
We made it to the other side. My hand was too shaky to get a good smack to the back of my brother’s head, so instead, I called him a jerk—then thanked him. I knew, once I uploaded photos when I got home, I would have said, “Man, I wish I’d gone across that bridge!” Tim said he struggled with his decision to deceive me, buy my sweet husband convinced him it would be okay. (I’ll smack him later.)
We make our way to the Centre Market. Though still daylight, all the businesses were closed except for 2 eateries—“Later Gator” and “Vocelli’s”. We decided to keep looking, made a circle around the Centre Market, and on our way out, passed the local fire department guys outside on the street playing stickball. Next door to the station was a group of college-aged looking kids sitting on the stairs of what once was a church, but the sign outside read “Towngate Cinema,” so apparently it is now a theater.
As we passed, I said, “I wish I could’ve gotten some photos.” Without giving it thought, Tim turned the car around, and that’s what I did. I snapped photos of the firemen (with their permission, of course!) and while I did, my brother chatted with the young folks next door. Conveniently, they recommended Vocelli’s as a great place to eat. Locals always know, so we took their advice.
Wheeling Fire Department guys playing stickball
And they weren’t wrong.
We went inside the small restaurant & ordered, then went outside to dine al fresco. I had a salad, Robbie had a turkey club, Tim had cheese pizza & salad, and of course, Robbie & I had to get pepperoni rolls since we were in West Virginia (Tim had garlic rolls—he’s vegetarian—and he said they were awesome, too.) The pepperoni rolls were absolutely the best I’d ever had in my life. Ever.
Scenes near Centre Market
Dining al fresco
With our bellies full and the sun down, we headed to the suspension bridge so I could get nighttime photos. What an awesome end to an awesome day.
Scariest bridge I’ve ever crossed, but most awesome.
Ohio River as seen from Wheeling Island
Sweet Bessie & Some Peacocks
The next day we left about 10:00 a.m. and headed to The Palace of Gold at New Vrindaban, about 45 minutes from the hotel. The grounds were covered in ornate buildings, two temples, thousands of flowers, a lotus pond, cabins, a vegan Indian restaurant, a gift shop, and a lake. Because of the Krishna’s view of cows, they’re protected (read: tame) and cared for until they die. I was able to do something I’ve always wanted to do—pet a cow. And I did! They were so clean and soft, and they ate grass right out of our hands. Peacocks and a peahen (maybe there were more, but I saw only one,) roamed the grounds by the lake, and bullfrogs were evidenced only by their croaking. The visit was tranquil, and the scenery, of course, breathtakingly beautiful.
We headed south to Morgantown and stopped at Chili’s for dinner. From there, we parted ways—my brother & aunt went back to Northern Virginia and the rest of us to Southwest Virginia. We all agreed we needed another few days to take in the sights of Wheeling & the surrounding area, to show some love to the northern panhandle we’d all but neglected. The area is rich in history. Beautiful in scenery. Full of hospitality. And a sloth lives there.
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)
