Children of Adversity

I know everyone thinks their kids are exceptional.  And they are, each in their own way.  But most people, by the grace of whoever they're praying to or the kindly whims of fate never have the opportunity to find out how extraordinary their children can be in extraordinary circumstances.  Perhaps it is one of my beautiful compensations for this mess I'm in that I have gotten to see this amazing strength and selflessness in my children, with the bittersweet twist of knowing they bear all this extra burden solely because of me.

What's a typical Saturday morning with kids at your household like?  Do the energetic little ones roust you by surprise leaping into your bed, or with the sounds of their first squabbles of the day?  Do they watch cartoons while you make breakfast and then disappear into their electronic devices for awhile?  That would be pretty normal, I would think.  Today was a pretty typical Saturday morning at our house.

My children accidentally woke me up with their quiet shushing of each other on their way down the stairs.  Knowing they probably want breakfast but I have to go pee, I give my son the usual choice of hanging out in his room or in the basement, so I can have some kind of privacy in the living room where my bed and commode are located.  He chose the basement, and tried to put away the folding chair he'd left out the night before in a moment of "oh yeah" responsibility, but I let him know not to worry about it because I really had to go.  When I was done I called his name softly a few times so he'd come back up from the basement.  I needed a drink of water and I didn't want to wake up his dad yet, knowing how exhausted he probably was from getting woken up several times a night the past few days to help me with my feverish stomach illness.  My son came right away when he heard me, and cheerfully emptied out my "stale" water from overnight and filled my cup with ice and fresh water.  Then he gently marshalled his sisters into the kitchen and started taking their cereal orders.  Oh yeah, he fixes breakfast, and for his sisters first.  

While he's pouring cereal, I tell his sisters that I'm almost better from my many days of bad fevers and soon I'll be able to give them hugs and kisses without germs again.  They cheer, and clap, and chant "Hugs and kisses! Hugs and kisses!" and decide that when I'm all better we will have a hugs and kisses party.  They eat, and it's nice and quiet in the house.  I'm still in that half-asleep phase of waking up.  It's quiet because the TV is not on.  We don't let them watch it before lunch.  No computers or video games before lunch either.  

After breakfast they all take their dishes into the kitchen, and my precious son pauses before the basement door.  "Do you need anything else before I go downstairs?"  The simple question tugs my heart.  So good.  I let him know that I'm good for now, to go play.  "Well if you need anything, call me to come up here!"  This one breaks me, and I struggle not to put on unnecessary waterworks in front of him.  "Okay buddy."  At the last minute he remembers to grab the book he was reading before breakfast and take it back to the basement with him.

I've written a lot about what this past year has done to me.  What must it have been like for them? They went months with only seeing their mother once or twice a week.  When they did see me, I was in a hospital looking like I'd never make it home.  My already pale skin had turned sickly, half my hair fell out, I was a mess.  And I'm sure it helped that I cried a lot, because it was so hard to see them so rarely and say goodbye again every time.  I've had to teach my daughters that getting a broken back is not the normal course to adulthood and ask them repeatedly to stop worrying when it will happen to them because it won't.  I've been home long enough now that they no longer worry whether I'll come back each time I leave for an appointment or therapy, but they used to get sad every time I left, and ask how long I'd be gone this time, and I had to promise each time that I'd be home by dinner.  

Yet each of them has this strength inside, they just ride along with the punches and do their thing.  Their beautiful, helpful thing.  Of course they fight and bicker and drive me crazy sometimes. They spend some time in Time Out now and then, and sometimes get privileges like afternoon video games taken away for this or that.  But most of the time it's Little Bit with the singing of the made-up songs, or Bandit with her uncannily accurate singing of popular songs, and the two of them playing make-believe together, with Bubby reading or playing with legos, and our too-small house is stuffed with the rhythmic peace of those three amazing kids.  Of course I'm getting better, and never give up or lose hope.  What else could I do with such shining examples of humanity around me?