Goodbye Comfort Zone

As some of you already know, I recently became unemployed for the first time since 2011, so Robbie and I have begun content creating.  (He’s more part of the content, and I, the creator.)

In May 2024, we became Rob & Teresa in Appalachia.

I’m not a pro at it.  Heck, I’m not even great at it yet—especially the videography part.  Interestingly, I lack in the promo part, too.  This is odd, because for the past 4 years, this is what I’ve done—either teaching marketing or doing it; however, I’ve never done it for myself.

Honestly, it feels odd.

But if I want our endeavor to grow, I’m gonna hafta.

Wow, This Takes Time

Content creation can be monetized (I’m hoping that ours will supplement my staying at home and being available for Britni 100% of the time), but for it to start earning money, we need subscribers, followers, likes, comments, watch hours, etc.  For instance, on YouTube, we need 1,000 subscribers and 4000 valid public watch hours in the last 12 months.  Yes, that’s a lot.  But not impossible.

Content creation takes time.  First, you have to get the video (which, for us, happens after weeks of planning to get to the place where the videos are shot—we have to coordinate Britni’s care with my parents and Baxter’s stay at the resort).  I get home with at least a few hours of raw (unedited) content.  This is when the real work starts.

Did you know that on average, editing takes about 1 to 1.5 hours per minute of video.  My most recent fifteen-minute video on Cool Cruisin’ Nights took about 30 hours to edit.  Now, the more I do it, the better and quicker I’ll get, but even professionals would have taken about 15 to 22 hours to edit it.  I worked during the early hours of the morning before Britni woke up, and a couple times had some creativity left in me at night after she went to bed to eke out a few more edits.  Video editing requires—for me, at least—an unbroken stream of thought.  Big chunks.  Four or five hour stretches.  I’m more of a “morning & earlier in the day” creative person anyway.

None of this is said with resentment or disdain.  I love doing this.  I’m just sharing what the editing part involves. Mad props to those content creators who are making a living from it—you are definitely earning it! Other places I can monetize are my blog and through my Amazon Associate store.  When you order from an Amazon link I post, I earn a small commission on eligible purchases.

Doing What I Love

In 2019, I finally earned my BS in Communications with an emphasis in Public Relations, Persuasion, and Advocacy from ODU (go, Monarchs!)  I’m tapping into that degree now…. using what I went to school for…and looking at every avenue for potential income supplements.

When I love something, I want to share it with everyone–I get passionate about it.  Whether it’s

Cooking

Great shopping finds

Fishing

Gardening

Advocating for individuals who have exceptional needs

Music

Cars

Appalachia

Our beloved West Virginia

Our amazing Queen Britni…

And doing it—sharing & promoting—takes a bit more fancy footwork for us than your average folk.  Besides Robbie & me, my Mom & Dad are Britni’s only caregivers, and they live an hour away.  Britni doesn’t travel well without them with us, so when we make our short trips, she stays with them.  For a two-night getaway, we must first ensure they’re available to care for her, then make sure there’s availability for Baxter to stay at Goin’ to the Dogs Pet Resort, then check for accommodations at our destination.  As newbies, our outgo is more than our income because we have to spend money to get the content, from which we’ll eventually see a return (you see how I’m thinking positively?).

Makes Me Nervous!

Put $ out to bring $ in? This is way outside of my comfort zone.

But I’m 53.

It’s time.

Plus, the higher the risk, the greater the reward.

And since I’m already out of that comfort zone, I figured I’d go ahead and ask.

Would you like to show your support, and do it at zero cost to you?  All it takes is a click or two.  A tap on a screen.  Perhaps a comment and a thumbs up (I’m not forcing a “like”, but those are much preferred over the ol’ thumbs down).  And shares.  When you share, it helps us reach people we never would otherwise.

Here’s How

Helping with our YouTube channel is easy.  Subscribe, like, comment…and when you set notifications to all, you’ll get an email letting you know when we posted another video.  (You can see how to do it here.)  The time watched, too, is counted, which goes toward our being eligible for the YouTube Partner Program. Like I said, 4000 watch hours and 1000 subscribers in 12 months is a lot, but it’s not impossible.

Facebook—like the page, like and comment on posts, share on your page.  Instagram—leave us a comment, hit that heart.

Just engage.

When you do, it shows these platforms we’re relevant, and they’ll keep pushing our content out there for more people to see.  Your engagement doesn’t happen in a silo…it creates a ripple effect.  And it is much appreciated.  Not only does it help us, we love hearing from you!  We love learning what others’ likes and opinions are just as much as we love sharing ours.

If you’re trying to get your business, or your content out there for the masses, feel free to share this information with your audience.  Let them know how important these small, quick, and free actions are to you.  Things that are too simple often seem like they don’t matter.

But they do.

And for each of you who has read through to this part, and subscribed, liked, shared, and/or commented, we are eternally grateful.

Robbie, Britni, and I thank you!

 

 

 

 

Lip Gloss & Cup Holders

I found this in old files…a recap of Britni’s 16th birthday party in 2008.  I can’t believe so much time has passed since then, as I remember this day so vividly.

 

Lip Gloss and Cup Holders

Ahh…another good day. Britni’s party was haphazardly thrown together, which is so out of the ordinary for me. I’m usually planning and shopping six months in advance for Britni’s birthday parties, but because of some recent life-changing events, this one was “planned” in less than a week.

And a good one it turned out to be.

lip gloss cupholders birthdayHer cake was yellow with buttercream frosting–green with yellow trim and a monkey on it. I had them write beside the monkey, “Goin’ Bananas!! Britni is 16!” (I love silly cakes…her 10th birthday she was hooked on the song “Old MacDonald’s Farm” so I had them put ‘E-I-E-I-O my! Britni is 10!’) The banana idea is because…well…she loves bananas! And of the few words she can kind of say, “Banana” is one of them, only she leaves off the “b”.

What did she get?

Ready for summer and ice cream!

She now has $151 and $26 in Dairy Queen bucks. I bought her a too cute tankini in orange and yellow that has orange slices all over it–it even has a sarong. From others she received a life jacket, a monkey beach towel, some bath gel in “Cherry Kiwi” scent, shampoo in coconut scent, a personal, handheld fan w/foam blades to use while she lounges by her pool, bathtub markers, sassy pjs in pink and black leopard print, and some much needed t-shirts. So happy about the DQ bucks…she knows where every Dairy Queen is within a thirty mile radius. We pass one of them after church on Sundays, and yes, more often than not, she gets an ice cream cone–vanilla, dipped in chocolate.

So much activity in my living room and kitchen for about four hours–kids playing with balloons, party horns being blown, squeals of laughter and inquiries for more cake and ice cream. In the midst of it all I looked over to the couch and saw Briana and Britni sitting together. Briana is nine…she told me last year that when Britni grows up, she and her friend Jordon were going to take care of her. “She is going to live with US because she can’t have a boy taking care of her!” Briana proudly announced.

BFFs

I noticed Briana taking the lid off Brit’s new sparkly lip gloss. I thought she would swipe some on her lips, but instead, she said, “Turn around here Britni, let me put some lip gloss on you.” Of course Britni did. Seeing that 9 year old putting lip gloss on my 16 year old’s lips warmed my heart more than one could ever know. While boys roughhoused in the floor bonking each other in the head with balloons and girls sat prissily on the couches, I was making sure guests had plenty to drink and had had all the cake and ice cream they wanted. Britni always seemed to have a friend sitting on either side of her, sometimes they were hugged up and showing off huge smiles while flashes from cameras illuminated the room.

A couple times I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Where is Britni’s drink?” one of her little girlfriends would ask. I’d hunt it down and hand it to them and they’d carry it to her and hold it while she sipped. (Britni can hold her own cup, but I didn’t want to deny them the opportunity to feel so needed by telling them she can do it herself. And to be honest, I think Britni herself allows others to help her that way because she knows it’s helping THEM feel important.)

Different, but wonderful

Her sweet sixteen. If she was a “typical” child she’d be talking about learner’s permits and cars and dates and dances at school and thoughts on where to apply to college next year. Some wonder, “Don’t you miss seeing her do all that?” In a word–no. I can’t miss what I’ve never experienced. My witnessing moments like I did today–the lip gloss on her lips, the cup-holding for her, the green, plastic bead necklace that she chose to wear with her black and white blouse with red patent leather belt–those things more than make up for it.

Yes…another good day.

You can read more about Britni here.
 

Significance

If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…

And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.

The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.

No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!

She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.

Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.

So, I accommodate.

Night time routines

This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.

It was bath time.

Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.

But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A shower.

I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.

Stillness.

She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.

And I let her relish.

I was, too.

We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.

It was bedtime.

I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.

To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…

“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.

And I’m all emotional.

Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.

I know I’ll never see mine the same….

Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.

Welcome To The World, Queen B

Welcome To The World

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!

You can read more about Britni here.

Showertime Serenades and Roadtrip Requirements

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.

 

You can read more about Britni here.

Adday’s Chopping Wood

New Discoveries

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.

The Queen’s perspective……..

The Queen watches as her Adday chops wood.

 

You can read more about Britni here.

Middle-of-the-Night Awakenings & Unexpected Gifts

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.

Thank You, Lord.  A blessing, indeed.

britnisnoozeYou can read more about Britni here.

Bedtime Rituals & Hair Brushing

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.

And so I do.

You can read more about Britni here.

When I Found My Voice

The Day It Began To Change

(warning:  This may be difficult to read.)

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)

bridge
Moving forward…together.

As I Celebrated The Queen’s 23rd Birthday (from 2015)

Dear 20 year old me,

Congratulations on your new baby girl. Her head full of wild hair will be just the first of many things that makes you ooh and ahh over her.

I want to tell you so many things you don’t know.  But it wouldn’t matter any more than telling a sheet of copper that eventually it would become a vessel.  The copper must go through the cutting and pounding and heat before it becomes what it was meant to be.

And so shall you. 

I know you’re uncertain about so many things, and feeling you’ve been flung into a parallel universe where you recognize no one or anything.  That’s ok.  You’ll make it through.  Even in the whirlwind of hospital stays and sicknesses and surgeries, you’ll still be sniffing her head, gnawing on her roly-poly thighs, buying frilly girly outfits in addition to the occasional baseball onesie, and snuggling her so tightly you feel you’re trying to absorb her.

Enjoy it.

Even at the hospital.

Enjoy HER. 

You’ll meet doctors and nurses and teachers and aides and parents and people at gas stations who will make you cry tears of joy because of their unusual kindnesses.

You’ll also meet jerks. 

But fortunately, the number of those who speak and act kindly will outnumber those who don’t.  So please….try not to carry too long hateful words or deeds.  They occupy too much space in your mind, and you for sure don’t want them growing the root of bitterness in your heart.

Your baby girl needs a peaceful you.

She needs a joy-filled Mom, who will eventually be called “Omma”.

Don’t fret over typical milestones.  Your baby girl will set her own time schedule.  Some things she’ll do on her time, some things she’ll simply not do. 

Trust me.  There will come a day where you won’t care about what she’s not able to do, and fully and completely rejoice in the things she can do.

And you’ll make a fool of yourself in parking lots.

“My 7 year old just signed “more, please”!  She put 2 signed words together!  She did it!  She did it!”

The lady returning her cart will smile, you’ll get in your car and cry.

Happy happy happy. 

You’ll pray like mad that God will heal her.  Oh, young me, I get what you’re saying.  But “she” doesn’t need healing.  Yes, you’ll want her healthy.  But her make-up, the DNA that has created this magnificent being and the God Who designed her, fashioned her in a beautiful way.  “She” doesn’t need healing.  She is who she is.  Her abilities.  Her “dis”abilities.  Her different abilities. 

One day you’ll realize—when someone comments that you’d probably give your left arm to make her “normal”–that no, you wouldn’t change a thing about her.  She’s perfectly and wonderfully made, and you love her just the way she is.

And you’ll realize what a milestone that is for YOU.

And then you’ll cry.

Again.  

20 year old me, I just want to say that you’re going to be overwhelmed when you get your baby home.

Overwhelmed with love.

With compassion.

With empathy. 

Your vision will change.  You’ll see everything through a filter, a filter that was created the moment you birthed her.  You’ll consider where others may be, because you know where you are.  You’ll be drawn to other babies who have g-tubes or AFOs or oxygen tanks.  Your heart will be tugged as you see moms carrying their bundles of differently-created, tiny humans and immediately sense a familial connection. 

Your endurance will be tested and proven.  Your patience will be stretched and strengthened.  Your heart will grow softer and your skin will grow thicker.  You’ll see God move in ways that your limited, human mind could never have imagined. 

So this vessel into which you’re being shaped, be sure it’s continually filled with the oil of compassion and hope and joy and encouragement. There will be occasions where you’ll begin feeling depleted, but if you remain open, I promise, you will be refilled.  (2 Corinthians 1:4)

Put your nose on your baby’s head and inhale deeply.  Sniff that sweet, infant scent.  Etch the aroma of her “cake breath” into your memory.  Nibble her toes.  Rock her a little longer.  Kiss those fat cheeks. 

Twenty-three years will pass more quickly than you realize.

newbornqueen
The Queen at 2 days old