Every parent who raises more than one child will recognize differences between Child A and Child B. Child A slept better at night, but Child B was sick less often. Child A prefers to be left to their own devices, while Child B wants constant companionship. Child A doesn't like peas, while Child B loves them. So on and so forth.
Now let's turn the tables a little.
The parents bring Child A home from the hospital. Child A was premature, so they expect delays. They do not expect Child A to still not be sleeping through the night at four years old. They do not expect that Child A will not crawl anywhere even close to on time. They do not understand why Child A will not play, or look at them, or respond to their voices, or follow directions, or walk. They expected Child A would do things just a little behind other children the same age. They did not expect to have rounds of tests and diagnostics and appointments to find out why Child A was not doing what Child A was "supposed" to do.
Then the parents bring home Child B. Child B was full-term. Child B sleeps through the night from birth. Child B crawled ahead of schedule, spoke in full sentences ahead of schedule, loves to play, knows their voices, follows directions, walked on time, and did everything they could not get Child A to do. This goes beyond the "expected" differences between siblings.
This is the life of a family whose first-born child is disabled. Every day, I am reminded more and more of how my son's are different.
I'm not going to lie.
I'm not going to tell you we celebrate all their differences. We don't. I don't stand up and cheer every time Byrd uses a spoon, and throw a party when Kai reads a book even though he still hasn't mastered eating with something that isn't his fingers. I encourage them to be themselves, certainly, but I see little point in celebrating these types of differences.
What prompts this? Well, two things: one, my irritation with friends and family who don't grasp that there is little to celebrate about my child's inability to do what his friends and younger brother can do, and two, my children's differences were at an all time high today.
Kai has no imagination. The world confuses him. I asked him today "What's your name?" And he told me all about his doctor appointment. "Yes honey, I know. I was there. Can you tell me what your name is?" And he proceeded to tell me all about his toy boats. "That's great, honey. That still doesn't answer my question. Can you tell me what your name is?" See, we've been working on teaching him his whole name just in case something happens. I spent half an hour on this today-asking him his name just to have him regale me with stories of his day...all of which I knew, because I was there.
Now, from my child who will be two a month from now, I got the following response: "Baby, what's your name?" "Tawyn Michael." That was it. Took less than a minute. (He knows his last name too, for the record.) I dug through my memory box today, too, and found an old stuffed rabbit. Byrd saw it and wanted it. "What will you name him?" "Button!" So. Wren gained a new friend-Button the stuffed rabbit. Kai found a rabbit in the Easter decorations that he wanted. "What will you name him?" "I'm not going to name him, Mom. He's a toy." Kai carried his toy (which, incidentally, he finally agreed to call...Button) with him. Wren insisted on Mommy sewing up a hole in his Button's foot, giving Button hugs and kisses good night, tucking Button in, giving Button a cupcup with Taryn, and singing a song for Button too. I went to check on my sleeping boys, and Kai's Button was tossed carelessly to the floor.
Taryn's is snuggled up with my sleeping baby, held tight by a child for the first time in over twenty years.
I try not to think about all the things that are "different" about my precious first-born son. Sometimes, though, they are so glaringly obvious (to me, at least) that I can't help but feel an ache in my heart.
Now let's turn the tables a little.
The parents bring Child A home from the hospital. Child A was premature, so they expect delays. They do not expect Child A to still not be sleeping through the night at four years old. They do not expect that Child A will not crawl anywhere even close to on time. They do not understand why Child A will not play, or look at them, or respond to their voices, or follow directions, or walk. They expected Child A would do things just a little behind other children the same age. They did not expect to have rounds of tests and diagnostics and appointments to find out why Child A was not doing what Child A was "supposed" to do.
Then the parents bring home Child B. Child B was full-term. Child B sleeps through the night from birth. Child B crawled ahead of schedule, spoke in full sentences ahead of schedule, loves to play, knows their voices, follows directions, walked on time, and did everything they could not get Child A to do. This goes beyond the "expected" differences between siblings.
This is the life of a family whose first-born child is disabled. Every day, I am reminded more and more of how my son's are different.
I'm not going to lie.
I'm not going to tell you we celebrate all their differences. We don't. I don't stand up and cheer every time Byrd uses a spoon, and throw a party when Kai reads a book even though he still hasn't mastered eating with something that isn't his fingers. I encourage them to be themselves, certainly, but I see little point in celebrating these types of differences.
What prompts this? Well, two things: one, my irritation with friends and family who don't grasp that there is little to celebrate about my child's inability to do what his friends and younger brother can do, and two, my children's differences were at an all time high today.
Kai has no imagination. The world confuses him. I asked him today "What's your name?" And he told me all about his doctor appointment. "Yes honey, I know. I was there. Can you tell me what your name is?" And he proceeded to tell me all about his toy boats. "That's great, honey. That still doesn't answer my question. Can you tell me what your name is?" See, we've been working on teaching him his whole name just in case something happens. I spent half an hour on this today-asking him his name just to have him regale me with stories of his day...all of which I knew, because I was there.
Now, from my child who will be two a month from now, I got the following response: "Baby, what's your name?" "Tawyn Michael." That was it. Took less than a minute. (He knows his last name too, for the record.) I dug through my memory box today, too, and found an old stuffed rabbit. Byrd saw it and wanted it. "What will you name him?" "Button!" So. Wren gained a new friend-Button the stuffed rabbit. Kai found a rabbit in the Easter decorations that he wanted. "What will you name him?" "I'm not going to name him, Mom. He's a toy." Kai carried his toy (which, incidentally, he finally agreed to call...Button) with him. Wren insisted on Mommy sewing up a hole in his Button's foot, giving Button hugs and kisses good night, tucking Button in, giving Button a cupcup with Taryn, and singing a song for Button too. I went to check on my sleeping boys, and Kai's Button was tossed carelessly to the floor.
Taryn's is snuggled up with my sleeping baby, held tight by a child for the first time in over twenty years.
I try not to think about all the things that are "different" about my precious first-born son. Sometimes, though, they are so glaringly obvious (to me, at least) that I can't help but feel an ache in my heart.
Taryn and Button the Bunny
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