Last night was the spring concert at the girls’ elementary
school. It had all the makings of a
community event, where each class sang one song, 4th and 5th
graders played “Ode to Joy” on recorders, the music teacher and principal were
appreciative to all those who attended, and cookies and cider followed. It was a sweet community event, and my Sylvie
wasn’t there. She’s got her monthly crud, and we’re hoping it doesn’t develop
into pneumonia again and throw her back in the hospital. Her papa, sister, and I left her at home with
one of her Personal Care Assistants.
Leaving Sylvie behind has become somewhat common place, and while it’s
more “convenient” it feels horrible. Our family isn’t complete when my two
girls aren’t together. Yet it’s feeling
more and more difficult to include Sylvie in things, and I suppose it’s prudent
that we didn’t drag Sylvie out on a cold, rainy April night into a loud and
chaotic gymnasium of little people.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help feeling a bit blue that Sylvie wasn’t with
us. Much in the same way I feel just a
little remorse when I see two able-bodied twin siblings dressed alike and/or
playing. It’s a quiet twinge that
doesn’t rear its ugly head much anymore, but it’s still there. Last night was one such night.
As I watched the various little people with their families,
I also couldn’t help but think about all the hidden lives we don’t know about
that were congregated in that one crowded gym for an hour. What does that family eat? Who is that boy’s mother? Is that child abused at home? What terrors and joys does that little girl
hold inside? What type of adult is that
child going to grow up to be? Where is
that handsome family going for April break? What is like to have family living in the same
town as you? Has anyone else left their child at home
because he or she is too sick to be out in the world? My mind wandered as the children sang,
thinking of all the secrets, hardships, mysteries and daily routines that we
don’t see of our neighbors. It’s not
that I assume we’re all the walking wounded; I just take comfort in knowing
that things are never as clean as they appear on the outside. This helps me avoid having a constant pity
party for myself and family.
Another reminder that we all have hidden lives: I read a story earlier today about a local Vermont man who has autism,
and with the use of facilitated communication has written a screenplay about
his life. He has an active mind, yet his limited speech has restricted his
ability to communicate with others. Yet
it is clear from this story that he is someone who is very inquisitive and
thoughtful, even as others have not always acknowledged or known of his
intelligence. It’s a good reminder for
me that my little Sylvie may actually have a very rich internal life (to which I
may or may not ever be privy). I hope
she is having big, wonderful thoughts and dreams in her little head. A hidden life indeed!
Kirsten is the mother of 6-year old twin girls and works
as a professor of Communication Studies at the State
University of New York.
I love this. I feel the same way when looking at the lives of others and contemplating all that lies beneath the surface that we don't see- and then feel guilty for the comfort that I gain from it as well.....Although you said it much better :) Thanks.
ReplyDeleteI often wonder the same things. It always surprised me when I find out that yes, indeed, someone in the crowd has a child like me that isn't with them. Makes me feel less alone and maybe them, too, which is why they came over to us to share in the first place. Hope Sylvie gets better soon and can join you on more outings!
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