From The Archives: "The Missing"

Originally posted February 2009 and specially requested by a favorite reader of mine! This is actually the most favorite thing I've written and the only thing I've written that makes my own self cry...

I miss my daughter, though she is not even gone. I see her reflected in my rear view mirror as I drive her to preschool. She is four and a half and in her face are both the rounded features of a toddler and fleeting glimpses of a teen. Her expressions and mannerisms reshape her babyhood into something resembling budding maturity. Soon, the little girl I cuddle and cover with kisses will be a blurred memory, jogged only by photographs. I watch her in an animated discussion with her cousin who is spending the week with us. Their heads tilt together forming an inverted V. Silken threads of hair gently overlap and hang like a privacy curtain from my parental gaze. They whisper and giggle, the cadence of their child-voices a melodic hum under the dominant beat of a Hannah Montana CD.


My daughter catches my eye in the mirror, and barely registers or returns my smile. "Can you turn this song up, Mom?" she asks with nonchalance. I oblige, aware that her world revolves around a different sun now. It rises and sets with her older cousin, her best friend, the one she emulates and admires. In her presence, I fade into the background; a haggard, boring old mother though just yesterday I was the beautiful Queen of her Universe. It certainly is bitter sweet when you notice your children inching away from you. Oblivious to the distance they have drifted until they are skimming the horizon, too far to see you as you wave goodbye.

As my four year old is at school I commence the rituals of my day, youngest two children in tow. I run errands, visit the library, go through the car wash, fetch the starched shirts, fix the cheese sandwiches. All the while, I feel a dull ache in the center of my being. It exists everywhere and nowhere; both overwhelming and depleting me. Not quite longing, not quite grief, not quite heart break, but reminiscent of all three. A familiar yet uninvited feeling. It's the verge of tears, the echo of emptiness, the cost of loving, needing, and wanting. The place in the pit of your stomach, the center of your chest, the swell of your throat. You know it is there because you feel where it is not. It's "The Missing."

The Missing overtakes me at infrequent intervals, never when I expect it so seldom am I prepared. Curiously, I am missing my four year old today. However, I have been missing the eldest of my four girls, my teenage daughter, her entire lifetime. I miss her though she is right there in front of my eyes. I see her. I touch her, yet she is not there. Autism has taken her place. Her permanent stand-in. The understudy who staged a bloodless coup. I miss the voice I have never heard in the conversations we never had. I miss the girl I never knew and the woman she'll never become. I miss the family I thought we would be and the life I thought I would live.

The Missing pulses beneath my skin with a current of its own. It's a slow bleed. It stays hidden most of the time, not only from others but from my own consciousness. I am convinced that I feel whole, complete, normal; then the currents shift and suddenly hollowness in my soul is exposed. Waves of tearfulness swell and are swallowed. The Missing gains strength in the shadow of my subconscious, subtly influencing my mood by inviting me to drop into bed early some nights, feeling exhausted, empty, aching, and inexplicably sad.

Today I will feel The Missing. Tomorrow I will wake up restored to equilibrium. Emotionally recalibrated. Or so I think. Or so I pretend. I will watch my four year old as she drifts away from me, incrementally, in spurts and fits. All the while, we'll both try to hang on and let go with a simultaneous dysrhythmia. I'll watch her two younger sisters follow suit, in their own time, in their own style. It shouldn't be any other way, nor would I ever long for it to be. I'll burst with pride, love, and joy as they navigate the world without holding my hand. I'll watch them transform into grown-up versions of who they are now. They will go, imperceptibly at first and then as if overnight. I'll watch them, one at a time, as they slowly recede into the distance of my rear view mirror. I'll watch them all go - save one. One will remain with me always. The one I'll never know. The one I miss the most. The one who is already gone.

From The Archives: "How To Derail A Train With A Lump Of Sugar"

Originally posted March 2009

I realized today that I must adopt a new strategy with my eldest's diaper changing. Since we're in a house full of girls, little girls, I just change my 13 year old's diaper anywhere and everywhere. Kids are running around naked constantly. I dress in front of them, shower in front of them, and scarcely am I ever able to pee in private. The only one who is not naked, or getting their butt publicly wiped around here, is my poor husband. He is the epitome of modesty.

Back to the diaper changing. I don't know what protocol is exactly for changing a pubertal teen, so I just do what I do with my 15 month old. Slap out the hazmat clean up gear and get to work, where ever the incident is discovered (and I'm talking about when we're HOME, not out in public, so don't get all crazy!) I mean, it's not like I can fit her on a changing table. Furthermore, she lacks any semblance of modesty and my 4, 3, and 1 year old really don't register nudity-related issues . Well, at least that is what I THOUGHT until today's Stumpper. You know, The Stumppers: the kinds of questions your kids throw at you that make your brain freeze and your mouth go "hommina hommina hommina."

Nutshell:
Me: Changing a giant, messy, smelly crap
13 year old daughter: Supine on floor, assuming the diaper changing "position"
Peanut Gallery: Hanging out at the table with PlayDough.

4 year old looks down at us with her bird's eye view and says

"Ewwwww, she's got hair on her BUTT!"

Why yes, she does. Can't deny the obvious now can I. And why should I?

"Why does she have HAIR on her BUTT?"

I answer "Well, when kids become more grown up, they grow hair on their private parts and under their arms." I'm doing great. It's human anatomy, pre-k style.

I should have foreseen the next question:

"Do YOU have hair on YOUR BUTT Mom?"

Good Lord! NOW the conversation is really taking a detour. I can't say "No" because that contradicts the explanation I just gave, and requires further discussion and a potentially confusing situation. I can't say "Yes" because then I can see her proclaiming "Mommy has hair on her butt" at a family function or in front of her pre-school teacher. I certainly cannot explain how people utilize all sort of hair removal techniques, and that while if I were stranded on a deserted island sans wax, razors or other deploritory I may become more familiar with "the jungle," that presently I follow the logic of the Brazilians, thank you very much.

In the space between my answer and the next unrelenting question, I suddenly realize I have something very useful on the counter that could really bring this conversation to it's well-deserved, age appropriate conclusion.

"Who wants a cupcake?!?!"

Ah, I never knew it only took a small lump of sugar to derail a train.

From The Archives: "Golden Showers"

Originally posted January 2009

I don't get to shower very frequently, and seldom manage it first thing on my chaotic mornings. Going one day without a shower used to totally disgust me. Now, I'm lucky if I bathe once every 3 to 4 days. No, I am not saying this with pride, and yes, I am as grossed out by that as you are.

Today, however, I did get my morning shower. A shower of a different kind. Yes folks, I was the recipient of a Golden Shower at 6:30 am. Translation: I was peed on. Full stream, full throttle, peed on. Though I have an infant in the house, she was not the culprit. It was my 13 year old, incontinent/non-toilet trained, disabled daughter. I was changing her diaper this morning and... Good morning sunshine!

Ah, nothing like getting peed on first thing in the morning. Not as gross as when a squirrel peed on my bare arm one summer in Williamsburg. At least I share genetic material with my daughter so the pee isn't foreign. You don't want foreign pee on you for sure, whether man or beast. But, isn't it good luck or something? I heard when a bird craps on you, that's a good omen. One of life's great oxymorons.

"Didn't she notice that she was peeing on you?" my husband asked. I stared at him in disbelief. Um, this is the girl that eats her own poop, walks out of the house naked, stuck her whole face in a chocolate cake at a dinner party, and will walk out in traffic without a single hesitation, thought or fear. So, no, peeing on me didn't register with her in any way until I yelled out "Mazeltov" a bit too loudly, which stopped her mid flow. In retrospect, I really don't know why I shouted that... I'm not Jewish, nor do I know what it really means. It just seemed like shouting my usual "Sh*t!" would be an inaccurate descriptor of the situation, plus I wouldn't want to inspire her.

The sin of it all was not the fact that I received a Golden Shower while still bleary-eyed on a Monday morning. It wasn't even that I had to wash my favorite, comfy black Old Navy sweatpants that I wear like, everyday. The real tragedy was that such a funny story had to go to waste. These are not the types of things that are shared freely with the regular suburban masses. "How are you today, Miss?" The bank teller asked me. "Oh great, just got peed on this morning" I longed to reply. I joined the typical moms in the dance class waiting room, longing to say: "So check this out, my teenage daughter pissed all over my leg today..." I could just see their mouths dropping open. A friend called and asked "What's new with you?" So tempted I was to retort with "Oh, you know, same old same old. My 13 year old pissed all over me."

Autism is such good fodder for comedy, only most people don't know that it really is okay to laugh.