2 Per Bag
Insideout510 | Thursday, July 16, 2009 at 5:27AM She wasn’t very happy about the hour and a half hike around the lake, but she did it. And now she sits across from me over a spider-web captured picnic table in the light of a Coleman lantern from another table. We swat mosquitoes, sitting away from everyone else. She is staring at me, head cocked to the side, half smile on her lips, eyelids heavy. Still, she mechanically conveys the little goldfish crackers to her gullet one by one. It’s almost 10pm.
She looks lovesick to me. My daughter. The expression on her face is one I’d expect to see (or never see, in truth) when she is a teenager, sitting across from her crush, finally having secured his attention.
Oh, attention.
We are on a Girl Scout camping trip – myself, my 10 year old daughter, 5 other mothers and 10 other scouts. Despite having stepped down from being a leader of the troop 2 years ago, I still sign up as chaperone for overnights every chance I get. I thought I did this for a variety of reasons – to spend time with my daughter, to get to know her friends, for a chance to flex my all too dormant adventuresome side for a bit, for a break from the cares of my alternatively communicating/thinking/moving/breathing/living kindergartner. But Cate’s forlorn looks of love make clear to me more reasons to continue to volunteer.
As the girls retire slowly and with much chatter to their tents, the adults settle in to theirs. One of my 2 tent mates bails on us. “Cate is going to come zipping the zipper, asking to come in to sleep with you and you won’t turn her around and shoo her away. 4 bodies is too many in here. I’m going somewhere else.” She gathers her bags and exits.
It’s true. Not only do my daughter and I usually end up in the same tent, but often the same sleeping bag. My girl is the only scout on the overnights who comes to be with her mom. The rest stay up all night talking about things 4th graders talk about, relishing the rare extended time together.
I confirm quietly to the exiting mother camper, “Nope. You are right. I will not turn her away.”
As I lay in my sleeping bag listening to my remaining tent mate spin tangent-rich, never-ending tales about her typical children and their typical drama, I am actually waiting for Cate. I am hoping she comes before the thunderstorms. I wait and wait, emit the occasional “wow” or “yeah, I know” as needed to sustain the farce that is my interest in the "cute" things typical 3 year olds say.
I should sleep since there is no hope of a full night’s or even half full night’s sleep in our home. But I can’t. I listen. The rain starts at 2am. The lightning and thunder rev up a few notches every 15 minutes. Eventually other adults come into our tent to discuss whether we should evacuate the girls to better shelter, all while checking iPhones for storm cells. I think it is unnecessary. It is rain and we are in platform tents. If some have fallen asleep (few had), they will never know about the storm. If some have not fallen asleep, it is because they don't intend to and they will use the volume of the storm as a safe noise cushion within which to jack up their own jaw-flapping. Ultimately, with no input from me as I lay still and silent in my bag, waiting, the conferring adults decide to let it be.
The storm subsides at 4am. I am still awake. I am thinking about the look Cate gave me earlier, about how on the hike and during the fire, she didn’t scurry over to her friends, but stuck close to me, holding my hand, asking me questions about when I was a girl. I think about how even when we were busy with an activity or scout rite, she would glance up at me and give me the tight-lipped slow smirk that says “you are the universe right now.” And I reassure myself that I gave the same smile back.
Girl Scout overnights are when Cate gets her old mother back. The mother that could focus, the mother that had fun, that created fun, the mother that wasn’t serious, vigilant and stressed about her younger sister’s needs any/every given moment of the day. The mother that could give her firstborn 100% of her attention, rather than whatever was left after the thinly spread, often tenuous energy and patience invested into her second born (and all the bonus material you get along with disability parenting).
Cate never came zipping that night. It was the first time she stayed where she planted her sleeping bag. She talked and flashed her flashlight with friends. On the way home the next day I told her I was so proud of her for hanging in and being a big kid. I’m not sure I was being totally honest. As if she knew this, she responded – “Mom, how about we have a sleep over tonight, me and you? We can put our sleeping bags in the living room and watch movies all night.”
Neither of us had the energy for that after a sleep-scant night, as it turned out. But what she meant, and what I concurred, was that we tried the sleep-away-from-the-demands-of-home-but-not-together thing and it wasn’t any great shakes for either of us.
One night every few months things are simple - cracks are spackled with: 1 sleeping bag, 1 mother, 1 daughter.
Reader Comments (6)
How wonderful and insightful to read something about the siblings of kids with special needs and that relationship between the mother and the "typical" child. It's a balancing act, for sure. Thank you for this post!
Wow. I really really enjoyed this post! The glimpse you gave us into the life of parenting the siblings of a special child was incredibly moving.
A wonderfully written and moving post!
Very nice post. My oldest, my daughter, is typical and I often think about the discrepancies about how much time is spent focusing on Shea now and then add the special needs on top of it.
Touching post.
I needed a good first-in-the-morning cry. That post was breathtakingly poignant. Thank you!
beautiful,
powerful,
TRUE.