You’re Missing It

One morning recently, I was drinking coffee alone and enjoying the quiet when my daughter Ellie came in and asked me for some ice water. Regular water just won’t do for her anymore; she turns her nose up unless she can hear the ice clanging around in the cup.

I got up and pulled a dainty coffee cup that matches an old set of China that Ben brought into our marriage. I put in two ice cubes and filled it about half-way with water.

Ellie smiled when I sat it down in front of her. She picked the cup up by wrapping her pointer finger through the handle, like she watches me do every morning. She put it up to her mouth and stuck her tongue in. Still working on learning how to drink from an open cup, that tongue, like most of the time in kids with Down syndrome, is hard for her to control and gets in the way.

I talked to her about drinking properly and reminded her to keep her tongue in and down. For about 20 minutes she and I sat together and she took little slurps of water in her mouth between my sips of hot coffee. She had a napkin and every drop that didn’t make it to its destination, she wiped on her own.

She smiled at me, put her pointer fingers up to her cheeks, planted them in her dimples and said, “I happy and I know it. I clap my hands.”

Most days, late afternoons are the worst around my house. I am usually trying to get supper cooked while the kids are running circles around the couch, seemingly trying to injure themselves, and inevitably the dog finds something to destroy or a place to pee on the floor.

My fever-pitch frustration transfers to the kids and that weakness of mine they sense only heightens their vibe. When I find myself wanting to scream, I usually find the portable speaker and turn on some 80’s dance hits.

The kids come running and the dance party begins. They stop fighting and start working together, holding hands and swinging their hips in unison. They spin in circles and sing choruses at the top of their lungs, and I do too. The mood is instantly lifted and the temperature in the house is a lot calmer by the time their dad gets home.

My oldest, Jack, like every other kid in the history of the world who ever went to school answers us with “nothing” when we ask him what he did during the day. In a real stroke of parenting genius, my husband started a bit where, during dinner, he tells us the made-up story of Jack’s day.

Ben’s story usually starts with Jack walking into school where he finds some unbelievable obstacle like a tiger or Santa Clause and before you know it, Jack is saying, “That didn’t happen! When I walked in, I got to my classroom before the tardy bell rang and started reading a book.” Soon Jack is talking over his dad, shushing him with the play-by-play we want to hear. This routine is so much a part of our supper time, every night the younger kids ask their dad to tell them “the story of Jack’s day.”

I don’t think we are unique in having these millions of small, seemingly insignificant moments that add up and shape what happens every day around here. One joke adds to another prank to another scolding and like a snowball rolling along, something that was just a one off becomes a ritual or habit.

It is exhausting to do things like listen to Gus talk for 30 minutes on why his toy beetle has a fever and has “taken dead” or tell Ellie every morning for the last three weeks not to go outside at 6 a.m. and draw with the sidewalk chalk by herself without asking or to step on another Lego that Jack left on the floor, but being here and part of the chaos is important.

I don’t think they will remember a lot about all of the details of our days together, but I do think the kids will remember what it felt like to have two parents working towards making it work. At least I hope they will.   

The kids have a book someone gave them and the line that is repeated over and over is “You’re missing it.” It is one of those books that I think is really written for the parents. The story is about a child who is at the park or zoo and wants his parent’s attention, but the parent is always on the phone.

The kids love it, but it is such an annoying book for me to read. I can completely sympathize with the parent who gets their kid safely to the swing set, sits on a bench and catches up on some emails or celebrity gossip in order to switch gears and do something other than wipe snotty noses and plan nap schedules.

It is hard to wake up every morning before the sun comes up by being shaken by one overly enthusiastic kid or another or to keep up with the teacher evaluations that require behavioral changes and I am so over changing diapers and cleaning up potty accidents, but, my gosh, that is my life.

And if I don’t lean in in to the chaos of letting these tiny fingers smear chocolate all over the front door or learn to just laugh when I look in the backyard to see a kid standing in an ice chest full of water sans shorts or underwear “teaching a real turtle how to swim,” I will miss it.

I know some people say that there is more to being a parent than just being there, and I guess my motivation is selfish, but there isn’t anything more important to me than just being here.

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