The Tooth Is...

The truth is, I tend to avoid social situations with both children, unless I have a backup plan.

Nick and I generally divide and conquer, but without him, I'm left to respond to the needs of two spirited children.

A mere single soul torn between conflicting desires.

And too often, I expect my six-year-old to relinquish her wants to the stipulations of her twelve-year-old brother.

This is not fair.

I know.

And yet I do it again and again to avoid Elias's melt downs and outbursts.

We dance around our boy with glass slippers, not wanting a sudden blip in his linear view to derail the whole day.

We try to anticipate the unexpected and prepare for any possible change--the irony of living like this is not lost on me, as I try helplessly to paint what has yet to be seen.

But I try anyways.

"Elias, when I say we have to go what are you going to say?"

"Ok."

As if rehearsing the words ahead of time will ease the transition when it arises. As if we can replicate the escalated feelings that come with sudden change, the way his nervous system kicks in and fires off his amygdala, how his thinking brain shuts down and leaves his body unable to comply with reason.

***

"Elias we need to go. Now!"

By the way he turns away from me, I know its coming.

I see the strength of his will to hold onto my previous words, spoken mere minutes before: Ok Elias, you and I can stay at the rink a little longer and Olive will get a ride to school with Brad.

He can't process the sudden switch.

It doesn't make sense: What does the image of Olive's mouth bleeding, her front tooth cracked, have to do with him?

I just said he could stay and now I'm telling him we have to go. Elias doesn't seem to care that Olive pulled off one of her skates and hit her front tooth with the blade.

He doesn't understand why this changes the deal.

With the fading light, I can't see into Olive's mouth well enough to know how much damage has been done.

And Elias refuses to come.

So here I stand, divided, unable to meet what both children need.

Unable to be both Mom and Mama.

I have to choose one.

"Alright Elias, I'm taking Olive home. I'll see you later."

****

Would I have left him there?

I don't know.

I didn't fully mean it when I said it, just another parental ploy, hoping to make him comply.

But...

If Olive hadn't stopped crying, said it didn't hurt that much, that she still wanted to go with Brad to Family Fun night at school, what would I have done?

I don't know.

Elias finally left the rink and walked in my direction, only to fall on a puddle of ice and swipe his arm at me, a writhing snake of a boy who, in an altered voice, snaps: "See, this is why I didn't want to leave! Its too icy!"

He didn't want to leave the ice because of the ice.

Well, that's reasonable.

He's on the edge of either tears or rage and when I reach down to help him up he almost pulls me on top of him, he's that strong, but I hold my balance and heave him up to his feet.

I'm on auto pilot too in a way. Stress filling my pours like a familiar lotion I wear too often even though I hate the smell.

Here we go again.

Game on.

And all I want to do is hold Olive.

My resilient girl who chose a friend's car over her family's to avoid her brother's aggression, to go see her buddies at school with the taste of blood in her mouth, cracked front tooth and all.

By the time Elias and I make it to Airport Heights, Olive has found her friend Fiona and doesn't let me look in her mouth for more than a second before saying, "Mom?!" and pulling away to walk down the hall.

This was Friday night.

Olive skied and played hockey this weekend and today she sat perfectly still in the dentist's chair as Dr. Walsh "wiggled" her tooth out.

Laughing gas and Novocain helped, but Olive's iron grit carried her through as I watched squeamishly from a chair in the corner of the room.

The tears didn't come till our driveway: "Mom, it kinda hurt."

"I know Babe and its OK to cry."

We snuggled a lot this afternoon and tonight, with Nick and Elias on an overnight field trip in Seward, I let Olive sleep in my bed.

After three stories we lay together, our breath and hands intertwined, bodies warm with our combined heat.

"Mama, I'm kinda happy Elias is gone for a couple days so he won't hit me and stuff."

 

Oh my girl.

Comments

[Danielle]

Big hug.

[Jenny Gutama Kulas]

Christy, you are such a strong mother. I only wish I had your kind of patience. I think of you often and your blog, your you when we lived in the coop, or spoke as poets with Blackfeather. I'm truly amazed and blessed to have met you and had you in my life. And those darling babes of yours are even more so lucky and blessed to have you and Nick as parents. Thank you for sharing your life with us.

[Christy]

Aw, thank you Danielle:)

[Christy]

Jenny, so good to hear from you I have many fond memories of our time together!

[s.e.]

So heartbreaking. You are brave to share so much difficult stuff. There is nothing as isolating as being the mother of a child with disabilities. I am lucky that she is my youngest and the hardest times with her have been as she got older and my boys are older and grown but she has suffered from her inability to understand family crises because of her disabilities.

[Alexandra Heidinger]

Christy, I want to remind you that even though I do not comment much, I always read your posts and I always feel impacted by them in some way, whether it's the beauty of your words or the pain or joy of your stories. I'm out here gathering something from you and I offer nothing in return, except this little reminder that I am here, and I bet there are so many people doing the same! - including my mom and dad, who I bet you've never heard from! So, thanks.

[tonikayerieger]

You are amazing!

[Christy]

Good to hear from you Al and I have hear from your parents in the past so its nice to know you are all still reading. One of these days I'd love to see you and your family.

Thanks all for your love and support!