I get there early. Pickup is a awful - the main artery to the school is a hellscape and the school parking lot a nightmare. So I park a VERY long block away, under the shade of overhanging trees and wait. I bring something to read. The New Yorker is a nice choice, but of late I'm re-reading Elisha Cooper's memoir, Crawling, about the first year with his firstborn daughter, who was born just a year and a half before our Boy was born.
I'm not the only one who opts to avoid the traffic hell. There are a few other parents with pickup duty who have discovered my spot. They park there too and wait, cracking their own books. Part of the reason I get there early is to beat them to the shady spot.
Once school lets out I watch as the kids make their way up that long block from us. You can see them at a great distance. The space between us is an enormous athletic field, unobstructed by trees. I make out the Girl, as always, five minutes before she arrives, spying her across the expanse, through the chainlink fences. I think, even at this distance, I can see her huge smile, but I definitely recognize that walk: that confident, effortlessly happy, saunter she has mastered.
I'm fortunate that she always seems to be in front of the pack, only passed by the kids with faster transport - scooters, skateboards, bikes. There are two boys who ride by daily on motocross bikes, both of them with black backpacks and black baseball caps, flying in single file. There's the boy on the fat-wheeled bike who leisurely lumbers his way past me, always seeming a little out of control. Behind him comes the kid who, for some unknown reason, removes the front wheel of his bike and straps it to his backpack before doing a wheelie all the way home. We pass him later, a mile down the road, the front fork still high in the air, peddling madly in "Hi Ho Silver" mode.
Across from me there's a mom who always parks her minivan on the other side of the street. She waits as I do, though perhaps a bit anxiously I've noticed, until her son arrives, around the same time the Girl makes it to the corner. The son, 15 or so, is in a wheelchair that is sleek and sporty, wheels tipped in towards his torso at the top of their circumference. When she sees him she she exits the minivan, pops the back and waits for him to finish the short distance from the corner to her car, before helping him load the chair and get in. The two of them seem to have been doing this a while - seem to have a system now. I find myself curious about his circumstance: How long has he been in a wheelchair? What happened? Even though I would never ask, when her eyes meet mine I nod and smile, trying to be friendly, trying let her know I empathize and understand. But, of course, I don't understand. There is no way I can.
There is so much about our kids that we "have been doing for a while, that has a system" - IEPs or 504s, doctor appointments, MRIs and CAT scans, back braces and therapists. We rarely discuss it with anyone anymore, rarely share the day in/day out aspects of it. After 12 years it just is. And there is also the sense on our part - not necessarily unwarranted - that most people won't get it.
A decade ago K was talking to someone about the kids - about the cardiologists, and orthopedists, and ophthalmologists, and rheumatologists, and the dislocations and subluxations and general pain the kids experience daily. The person she was talking to nodded sagely and said, "My cousin's youngest has ADHD so I know exactly what you're going through," before spending 20 minutes discussing her cousin's difficult days.
No one can know, not really, about what's become routine now, very much part of who we are, now.
The Girl has an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon next week. She has been out of her back brace for nearly a year. The expectation was she would be fine and at her age she should see no more curvature added to her scoliosis. However, last February at a followup the curve had gotten worse. The appointment next week is to see if that worsening has continued. If so, she will go back in the brace, or possibly face surgery to fuse her vertebrae.
She mentions to me on the way home from school that her friend with scoliosis saw her surgeon last week and due to the worsening state, spinal surgery is scheduled for her next month. All of this weighs on the Girl's mind. Why wouldn't it?
The Girl hated that brace, hated spending 18 hours a day in it for 18 months. But she never whined, she never complained, she followed the routine. She wanted it over with and was aware that sticking to the rules meant it would come off sooner and never return. Now she fears that it didn't matter, that she will be back in it, potentially off and on for the rest of her life. Or worse, spinal surgery. So I hold her as she cries, listening to this tough-as-nails kid with that amazing saunter as she weeps and l just hug her, helpless to do more.
I find myself thinking of the mom in the minivan, waiting every day to pop open the back of the van, to help the son she obviously loves into the seat. Is this what she imagined all of it would be? I think of Elisha Cooper, whose second book was about that same firstborn daughter - about when she was diagnosed with cancer at age seven, and the emotional turmoil that entailed. Did he ever suspect what was in front of him?
I think of all the new parents that look into their newborn's eyes, fall in love in that oxytocin rush, idealizing a perfect future for that baby, and I wonder if they ever imagine the things that may be lurking, the changes that will happen. How could they?
Every moment of being a parent is magic - every single moment - and I wouldn't trade one for anything, but how would we ever become parents if foresight gave us any inkling of what might be coming?
It's funny. I titled this post "The Boy & the Girl & the G", but that's not correct. It should be titled, "The Man & the Woman & the Young Lady" because that's what they've become. In what feels like an instant my little ones have become grown.
Wow! and Ow!
They are preparing to make their way in the world. I couldn't be prouder of what they've become, and couldn't be more excited for what they will accomplish.
But...
I can't help but ache.
The Boy and the Girl both received performing arts awards over the weekend.
Not to be outdone, the G is prepping to head off to a "by invitation only" science camp to start the summer, where she'll join other girls her age exploring the wonders of the world.
Oh, and the Boy has a sweetheart, whom he adores (as we all do.)
Would that I could have spent the rest of my days carrying them on my hip, but that was never an option.
At some point they suit up, hug you as tears well in your eyes, and with a mighty flap they take flight.
