Reach Out

When life gets hectic, I always have Claire.

 A placid, congenial, and helpful child, she is a soothing contrast to my ruffled feathers, reminding me with her six year old example to slow down, hug often, and smile.

This is my kid who mid-dinner will make eye contact with me, put her hand over mine, and ask, "Mommy.  How's the hearing going?"

She is genuinely concerned for others' happiness, and should I hear a beep or a whistle and Claire picks up on it, she'll nod with enthusiasm.

"Very GOOD hearing, Mommy!  You're doing good!"

It fills my heart every time.

Having grown accustomed to her steadiness, I've been thrown for a loop with her sudden change in behavior.

As of Thursday, her joyful glow has dimmed, replacing her bright-eyed laugh with tears, anxiety, and worry.  She is crying everywhere, each time offering a different explanation as to why she is so stressed.

She misses me.  She misses her Dad.  She misses her grandmother.  She misses her friend from pre-K.  School is too loud.   A friend is grumpy.  A friend was absent.  Sometimes kids at school don't behave. 

And there was that moment on Saturday, through crazy curls and streaming tears: "Mommy.  I'm just EXHAUSTED.  I'm. Burnt. Out!"

Sigh.

It's hard to watch my baby suffer with such angst.  Considering the varied explanations, I'm lost as to what momentarily stole her sunshine.  I've talked with her teachers, with her babysitter, with our family, and we all have our theories as to what is weighing so heavily on Claire's little shoulders.  In the end, we each offer the same conclusion: It's just a phase.

And I believe that.

Still, I found myself in a text exchange with her teacher, offering this insight: "I feel for her always trying to be the good girl.  She feels this tremendous responsibility not to let others down."

Before I pressed SEND, I paused.

I might as well have been talking about me-- always trying to make sure I'm not an inconvenience or a disappointment.  I thought of how I put pressure on myself to make a strong first impression, work harder so others work easier, possibly overcompensating because I don't want my struggles to be spotlighted. 

It's easy to feel lost when you're alone, and maybe Claire started to realize this. Yesterday, she offered an idea to remedy her worries:

When she gets sad, her big brother could comfort her.

Interesting.

Don't get me wrong-- I love my son, and he has many wonderful qualities.  Displaying empathy, however, is not his strong suit.  He's a cool nine year old, a jock, a BOY... you think he wants to kneel down and wipe the tears of his little sister, especially in front of the other kids at school? 

Still, I believed in him, and saw Claire's proposal as a leadership opportunity.

Colin, help your sister.  Be there for her.  Comfort her.  First and foremost, have her back.

This morning I dropped the kids off to school and as they walked toward the entrance, the signs were there.  Claire's eyes grew watery; her shoulders began shaking.

I watched her reach out for her brother; he acted like her hand wasn't there.  She tried again; he looked away.  On Claire's third attempt, I watched as he reached down and grabbed her small kindergarten hand. 

With his back to me, he couldn't see how proud I was.

Sometimes we need certain someones to have our backs.  I don't have a big brother, but I have several fill-ins for the role.  These men (and women) have become mentors in my life,  allowing me to be my most vulnerable self and accepting me just the same.  They encourage me to see challenges as opportunities, to "stay the course," to relish in adversity.   It can be tough to put ourselves out there and admit confusion as to what to do next, but I've learned it's way tougher to get through those moments alone. 

Claire will be fine.  I will be fine.  We are lucky to have the strength to reach out to others, to embrace their wisdom, and to learn from their journeys.

We'll pick ourselves up and move forward, stronger and brighter than before.

Kindergarten Critics

Me and Claire-December 2012.

“Look at my mom’s COCH-LE-AR IMPLANT!” chimed my daughter Claire as she reached to the right side of my head.  Surrounded by her friends, she was trying to brush my hair away to reveal the sound processor behind my ear.

We were in Claire’s kindergarten classroom where I had just finished volunteering.  Forty five minutes earlier, I had sat in front of 25 little faces, their bodies seated criss-cross applesauce on a colorful carpet.  Before opening my storybook, I explained I first needed to tell them something.

I had trouble looking at the teacher or the teacher’s assistant as I began my speech, completely aware I was avoiding eye contact with them.  Maybe because if I had looked, I would catch a glimmer of sympathy in their eyes, or even a silent small smile-- the “I know this is hard, disabled one, but good for you” acknowledgement that would leave me off-balance and overly emotional because they knew the truth. 

It was hard giving this speech. 

I was scared a group of five year olds would somehow lessen their respect for me if they knew of my truth.   And despite a brave front, I questioned if Claire, seated smack in the middle of the group, would feel any wave of embarrassment, sadness, or shame that her mother was different. 

“I have something special about me,” I began.  “I used to have trouble hearing so in the spring, I got a surgery to help me hear better.  It’s called a cochlear implant.”

I then lifted my hair to show them the processor. “I’m still trying to learn to hear, and there are some things you can do to help me, like speak loud and clearly, and to raise your hands before you speak.”

Right away, several of the kids’ hands popped up. 

“And LOOK at you while we’re talking,” chimed in a little pony-tailed angel in the front row. 

“And take turns speaking,” added the second child I called on.

“Wow!  You guys are smart!” I commended, and I meant it, though I admit that initially, I didn’t give these kids the credit they deserved. 

Later, when I spoke with Claire about the day, I asked her if there was a hearing impaired child in her class, figuring someone at some point must have gone over communication strategies with the kids.  But Claire assured me she knew of no child who wore a hearing aid (or a big earring as she called it). 

She didn’t offer much of an explanation, simply stating, “Even the kids who normally misbehave looked right at you, Mommy.  I guess they must have liked you.”

Here were kids, some unable to write their own names or tie their shoes, and yet they knew how to communicate with me better than many adults.  There was no unnecessary increase of volume in their voices.  No E-NUN-CU-AT-ING EACH SLOOOOOW AND PAIN-FUL SYLL-A-BLE to make sure the deaf lady understood.  Within 30 seconds, it seemed the kids made sense of the situation, offered some suggestions so that we’d better understand one another, and that was that.  After my speech, I glanced at Claire, wondering if she would smile in my direction or give a small nod of approval.  There was none of that, either.  Her face carried the same expression as if I had told her the weather condition outside-- an expression that says, “That’s nice, so what are we going to do next?”

The volunteering continued, and after a story, some crayons, and a snack of the Dunkin Donut munchkins I had brought just to make sure I could win the kids over (totally worked, by the way), the class lined up for lunch and I decided to walk down the hallway with them as I left the school.  It was then that my daughter looked up at me and smiled, and while most of the kids were too preoccupied to hear her, I did.

In her signature high pitch singsong voice, she exclaimed, “Look at my mom’s COCH-LE-AR IMPLANT!”

And you know what I realized?  She’s proud of me. 

After years of worrying that my situation would somehow embarrass my kids, Claire looks at my cochlear implant as some kind of badge of honor.  In fact, sometimes when I’m not wearing the processor, I catch her by my bedside table, placing the processor behind her right ear and then looking in the mirror, cocking her head from one side to the other as if she’s trying on a headband or experimenting with eye shadow.

In moments like that, my heart smiles… and heals.  And when she decided to show me off to her friends, well… my heart just swelled with enormous gratitude that I get to be this little girl’s mother. 

Because of Claire, I am learning to wear my “big earring” with pride.