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.

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.

The power of water

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.

Sunshine & Music

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.

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.

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.

You can read more about Britni here.

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.

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.

britnisnooze You can read more about Britni here.

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.

The Queen’s Bath Time

All I could see of her face was forehead to chin, cheekbone to cheekbone. The Queen had her spa bath tonight and she was literally up to her ears in bubbles. The lavender-scented Epsom salt bubble bath, a cup of baking soda, and a towel over top of her as she soaks is what sets these baths apart from her typical ones.

And she loves them.

Stillness settles over her as she lay back, my arms underneath her to increase the sensation of buoyancy. Slowly I sway her—back…forth…back….forth—the rhythm seeming to command weightiness to her eyelids. My mind swooped back to the times I bathed her in the kitchen sink when she was a baby. All the way up to the age of 2 ½ she couldn’t support herself while sitting, so I’d cradle her with one arm while bathing her with the other. Amazing how dexterous we moms are with our babies. I’d wash her fine, curly hair with Johnson’s No More Tears, then hold up a mirror for her to see the white mass of bubbles piled on top of her head. Each time, I’d try to make it higher, higher, to see how tall it’d go before it would plop over. A yawn covers her face.

Back….forth….back….forth. The water cocoon and heavy towel brings tranquility. Daily, her muscles are worked 3 times as hard as anyone else’s in similar situations. A typical task is hard work for her. An expenditure of energy. Her bath time is therapy. The swaying continues as I quietly sing, “Hush little baby don’t say a word……Omma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…” My left arm is under her at the small of her back, my right hand cradles the back of her head. “….and if that mockingbird won’t sing, Omma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring….”

Forty minutes have passed–I feel the water starting to cool. I situate her where her head is out of the water, and she’s covered from her neck to her toes. She remains quiet. I scoop up a palm full of bubbles and put them on her face to make a white beard and she asks for the mirror (yes, she has a non-specific one for bath time, which started with the kitchen sink baths.) She cracks up at the sight. Twenty-four years I’ve done this. Just as I begin thinking nothing has changed, I realize it has. I reach for the razor and uncover her left leg, shave it, then repeat the process with her right. My baby. And I am shaving her legs. She’s wearing a bubble beard, a plastic fish floats in the water, and I’m shaving her legs.

Some may see it as a confusing mish-mash of baby toys and grown up necessities. I see it as a blessed blend of all things I’ve been chosen to do. Keep her clean. Let her have fun. Help her relax. Be silly with her. Why wouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I?

I walk her to her bedroom, the too-big feet on her puppy-printed pajamas flopping in front of her which gives her a gait like a cat walking in wet grass. Her honey-gold hair has been blown dry, and is “so shiny and ‘poofy’” as Adday proclaimed. (We 80’s peeps see that as a compliment, don’t we?) She grabs her Meer, I sit beside her and begin our bedtime prayers. I whisper her secrets in her ear (something else I’ve done since Aug. 3, 1992,) and am nearly overcome with nostalgia. Oh, how blessed I’ve been to do this for 24 years. 291 months to be precise. Bath time replete with bubbles, fish that squirt water, bubble beards and shampoo crowns. My baby. She is freshly bathed. Smells of lavender. And has smooth legs.

Blessed, indeed.