One Child

You can find a whole world in a child’s face.

Gently rounded cheeks, short stub of a nose, wide-set eyes with too-long lashes reveal a soul, enchanted and bewildered by the mysteries of life. A scar stretches across her young face, not large enough to disfigure, but hinting at past hardships and injuries. Her right eye squints. She can open it but she does so only if she trusts you. As a newcomer, you will earn merely a sideways glance.

Her skin is dark and even, smooth on a forehead which rises steeply above heavy brows. Her nose is wide and flat with nostrils flaring, as she eyes you suspiciously. Her lips form a thoughtful pout, characteristic of her age. In her own world, she is quite a beauty.

She flashes me a quick smile, revealing perfectly symmetrical teeth, which, ironically, she has never used to chew anything. Someone pulled her hair into tidy little braids and pink bows, but a thin ringlet escapes and snakes across her forehead, where it defies law and order with disarming innocence.

What a precious child! The longer I stay, the more she draws me into her world. Her spine, twisted and bent, cannot hold her upright. Her legs are stiff and contracted, her hands curl into tight fists. From time to time, she dissolves into coughing fits, strong enough to rock the bed. The pole, which holds her liquid nutrition, teeters precariously.

I’m here to care for her today. I should perform my respiratory duties and move on to the next child, but somehow I can’t. Medically frail, she has a powerful hold on me. I stroke her face gently, smooth back the precocious ringlet. She turns and studies me, this time opening both eyes. I speak to her in soft tones and am rewarded with another timid smile. She knows my voice. I sing for her, glad that no one else is here to listen. She doesn’t mind that I’m off key.

Later in the day, I think about that moment, when she stopped time with her smile. I sense deep, emotional scars, hidden beneath it. Surely she has suffered more than is allowed for one so young. Unable to make words, her language is subtle. I only lingered at her bedside for a few minutes, but she revealed a whole world to me in her expressive face. At shift end, I catch myself humming her song again. Even now, I smile, as I leave the building.

(Purely fictional. Resemblence to living persons is coincidental and unintended)

Little Girls And Worms

I never knew seven little girls and a handful of worms could create such mayhem!

They came from all different backgrounds. Some were tough, some were squeamish. Some were bold and some were timid. Each of them came armed with a cane fishing pole with a dangerous looking hook at the end of the line.

More accustomed to boys from my years of Cub Scout leadership, I approached them with a wait-and-see attitude. There was way too much pink in the group for my comfort. Cutesy tennis shoes dressed busy little feet and sported colorful designs. Luckily, there was little jewelry and the hairdos looked fairly simple.

Unwilling to attend camp voluntarily, I had shown up only under duress. I would have preferred a strenuous day at the clinical site, rushing from patient to patient, but in the end, it was not my choice. I was immediately assigned to a team, headed by my friends, Kristine and Heather. Their group of seven little girls welcomed me easily into their space.

They lined up along the bank with their fishing poles, which measured three times their body height and tried to cast. After they banged each other with poles several times and crossed lines, I hurried to their rescue, but not before one girl’s pink shorts got caught in a hook, making her squeal loudly because the worm touched her clothing.

One of the activity directors - wearing latex gloves – bated their hooks. Another, equally clad, removed the miniscule fishes from the lines, whenever a beaming girl proclaimed a glorious catch. Kristine and I busied ourselves with casting and untangling lines.

“Ewww!” somebody screamed and I rushed to investigate. “What’s that? It’s slimy!”
I pulled a clump of water plant off the hook. “It’s just a plant,” I explained, “It’s like grass; it just grows under water.”
“Like grass?” they said. “Oh…” Little mouths open in amazement.

Surprisingly, they managed to stock our bucket with fifteen small Crappy. Each girl was properly photographed with her first catch. Some beamed with pride, some remained solemn, understanding the seriousness and importance of their achievement. A couple of them became quite adept at casting, but the others still tangled their lines, keeping me occupied.

Our time was up much too soon. We released the fish and while we waited to be picked up, the tough girls threw worms at the squeamish ones, making them scream. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. The mayhem they created was only partially out there. Much of it raged within my soul, as I remembered that a really do like kids and that I miss these camp experiences, the lazy times at the fishing hole, the crazy times playing games, the laughter and the happy memories I always took home with me. I stayed for supper because the girls asked me to. And I left only reluctantly to return to my own life.

Left Sock

Where does the other sock go when you do laundry?

Yesterday, my left sock lamented that my right sock filed for divorce. Left Sock was inconsolable, so against my better judgment, I sat down and asked for the whole bizarre story.

They were a nice pair, well-lived, but not old yet; comfortable and still marginally white. I tend to treat my socks fairly well, so I was surprised to find out that I was a player in this tragic sock tale. Left Sock hung limp and dejected over the couch arm rest, smelling freshly laundered when he took a deep sock breath and began to tell me his woes.

Right Sock had moved out that morning, right about the time when I tossed a load of laundry in the machine, assuming, as I usually do, that my footwear was wrapped up in the rest of the clothes. But Right Sock was peeved, so much so that she disappeared and sent over a deputy to serve papers on her partner within the hour.

My fault! I am the reason for this tragedy. Evidently, I'd been wearing the pair switched, on the wrong feet, Right Sock on my left, and she, born for the dominant side, felt offended and underprivileged. I didn’t even know it mattered!

Left Sock wouldn’t have minded, really. It made no difference to him which foot he dressed, but Right Sock would not take the insult in stride. She stormed out, without any consideration for poor Left Sock, who pined away for her, deeming his life worthless.

I wasn’t much help to him. What was I supposed to do, walk around half-dressed? I told him, he would have to make some concessions, promise her a window seat in the washing machine or something. And I made it clear that his job was on the line if he couldn’t get her back.

Was it just my imagination, or did he look a bit grayer when I walked away?

Watermelons

Winter, my classmate, has a warm glow about her these days. We’ve been watching her. In only two weeks of summer break, she has grown much rounder. What bulges under her new blouse looks suspiciously like a full-grown watermelon. A smile brightens her face when we tease her and her eyes twinkle. We all share her anticipation. Winter is family – Respiratory family. Her baby will have lots of adoptive aunts and even a few uncles.

Kathy, whose baby was born a while ago, also shared her joy with us with pictures and anecdotes. And we cheered for her and worried when the little one was sick. Seeing her with her young child in her arms was the highpoint of our Austin trip. Knowing that we can in some small way participate in her first year of life makes us smile.

As every woman knows, babies belong to everyone. The moment a woman begins to show, she loses her status as an individual. And her swelling belly, once carefully hidden, is now the object of overt admiration. When baby is born, friends and strangers alike stop to flirt. We can’t help ourselves. Babies are irresistible.

When I watch Winter move and stretch around her swollen midriff, I am whisked back to my own pregnancy, years ago, when I felt the joy of new life within me. My friends teased me then, asked me if I really meant to swallow that watermelon seed, and I heard the familiar phrase: “Haven’t you had that baby yet?”

A small child is alluring and entices us to strange behaviors. It’s automatic. When I address a baby, my voice changes to a higher pitch and I can’t get the smile off my face. Baby’s response is delightful and worth the trouble. I work a little harder to sustain the effect. Too cute!

The cuteness wears off proportionally, as children mature. Once they voice opinions and exhibit unpleasant behaviors, we tend to back off. Not so with the special children who are stricken with disabilities, the ones I will begin to care for at work tomorrow. The ones who remind me so much of my own special needs son.

Innocence is endearing and charming and appeals to us, because we can forget that the world is not perfect. Innocence lives in babies, rocked in loving arms. Innocence also lives in special children whose minds have stayed simple and sweet and whose hearts shine through the smiles on their gentle faces.

Monday, when I see Winter again, I’m sure her watermelon will be a little larger still. As she carries her child into the summer months, she will feel its weight. She may stop from time to time to wipe perspiration from her face and she may ask herself: “Did I really mean to swallow that watermelon seed?”