THE MOPPET SHOW: First day, first show
The ups, downs and surprises in getting a child to her first day of kindergarten; introducing a new parenting blog
Kindergarten eve.
9.30pm: We’ve just returned from last-minute school supplies’ shopping.
9.35pm: I talk to a friend on Facebook about being stressed out and she informs me she finished school shopping a week ago. I suspect I will soon have a former FB friend.
9.45pm: Kyra’s CNA (certified nursing assistant) aide, to me: “Ka, shall I try and get Kyra to sleep?" Me, gratefully, as our CNA should have left by 9.30: “Yes, please." Try not to notice that the husband is smirking—Kyra, a diagnosed insomniac, never sleeps at this time. Ignore the husband.
10.15pm: The CNA, walking out of the room, mournful: “She’s wide awake". We can hear triumphant sounds from inside the room. We shut the door. The CNA leaves. I look at the husband. “Do you think you could get her to sleep?" He agrees, without any noticeable enthusiasm.
10.45pm: He’s back out of the room. “She’s wide awake. Just let her be now." Of course I will.
11pm: We listen to a gleeful NBC4 anchor tell us why the morning commute in and around Washington, DC, is going to suck. “Schools in our area will open." Thank you, NBC, for rubbing it in.
11.30pm: The husband, expectedly: “Okay love, I’m off to bed. I’d better leave at 6 instead of 6.30am for work, I’ll say bye now." I smile lovingly. Not really actually. With six years of marriage and one toddler, we both know it’s a fake smile. He beats a hasty retreat. I think, “Traitor, you’re leaving me to deal with this."
Kindergarten day
12.30am: She’s still up, playing with Mr Blue Snake in the dark. Mistake. Got too close. Blue Snake’s much chewed on tail, full of baby drool, catches me in the face. I beat a hasty retreat.
1.30am: Go back in. The sippy cup is empty. Fill it, change a stinky diaper, and cuddle. As I doze off, I can hear her chattering away in her own language. To state the obvious, the two medicines she’s on for sleep onset and sleep maintenance insomnia, diagnosed in 2012, are clearly having a delayed reaction.
2.15am: Something wakes me up. The sippy cup is lodged under my back and the snake’s tail is draped across my neck. I cautiously turn around. She’s asleep. I send up a prayer of thanks and retreat again.
2.30am: I set two alarms. One for 7.15am, to wake up, shower, get breakfast ready, and pack her lunch and two snacks (mental checklist) and one for 7.40am, to wake Kyra up. Think. Enough time to give her breakfast and get ready to leave by 8.15am? Yes, I think so. Look at the clock. 2.48am. Fall asleep.
6.45am: Suddenly realize, belatedly, that the husband is not in the loo. He did actually leave early. The coward. I call him. He plays unfair. I am greeted with the words, “Good morning, love."
He says he’s glad he left early for DC, about half an hour from where we live in northern Virginia, as the traffic is really bad. Yeah, yeah. With wifely practice, I tune out to think about whether my checklist needs to be re-checked, just as he says, “I think you should leave by 8am latest." I tune back in. For a 10-minute drive when we have to be at school at 8.55am? No way in hell. Look at the clock.
6.49am: Lie down for 5 minutes to think about the situation.
Look back at the clock. Bloody hell! It’s 7.20am, the alarm never rang, and I’m an unnatural mother—I haven’t given her breakfast as yet. Consumed by guilt, I run and find Kyra’s opened the box of almonds I’d kept near the couch at night (confession time) and has two almonds in her hand. There are several chewed-on slivers of almond all over the carpet. Cannot scold, mea culpa.
7.28am: Plonk her on the high chair. Figure I have 7 minutes to feed her.
7.55am: Have packed said extra snack, lunch, and run through the checklist, all done. Drag suitcase with art supplies, diapers, wipes, sanitizer and a bunch of assorted heavy stuff to the car. Load it all, puffing.
8.08am: super quick, sort of. Decision time: Jeans & T or short summer dress? Don’t want teachers to think I’m tarty, opt for jeans & T.
8.15am: Have Kyra ready, almost. Her new black pants are too loose at the waist. Just FYI, she’s had no weight gain since November 2011, but that’s another story. Grab a pair of old black pants to match her new plaid shirt. She looks lovely. I pick her up. I get emotional; she chews placidly on my ponytail.
8.17am: Phone buzzes. Text from a friend: “Steamy hot day today." Ouch! No time to change her from the fall outfit, grab a short-sleeved T and stuff it in her backpack. Put Kyra in the car seat. 8.20am.
8.22am: Martha (our GPS, I decided she’s a “Martha") tells me, “Acquiring Satellites." I thank heaven my mom’s not around, and curse in three languages. Two minutes later, Martha’s still having a hissy fit; hit reset and leave, I’ve practised this route. Switch on the radio to relax. NPR is talking about terrorism in Somalia, terrorism in Iraq and angry Russians. Switch to the country music station and get a song that borders on rap. Switch off the radio.
8.50am: There are advantages to having learnt this fine art in Delhi traffic. I squeeze between two cars, grab a parking spot someone else was also headed towards, shrug apologetically, unload, and begin the walk towards the school building. The backpack is on my back, and I’m dragging one large suitcase with my left hand and one small daughter with my right. The jeans are very hot, and very sweaty. Am surrounded by parents in super short clothes and teachers in short summer dresses. Try to feel morally righteous, and fail miserably.
9am: I say a grateful goodbye to nice Supermom, put Kyra down and ask a couple of girls wearing yellow sashes and looking like they’re in charge, the way to the Kindergarten IDS (Intellectual Disability, Severe) classroom. They point towards the main door. “Somewhere in there." Smart alecks. Refuse to pick a fight with 10-to 11-year-olds, realize Kyra has walked off to pick a fight instead, with the strange yellow creature waiting to greet all students. I drag her away, yelling excitedly, and enter the school lobby.
9.05am: Kyra lies down on the lobby floor and begins stimming, moving her head from side to side, and scolding the world at large. I look at a teacher who had stopped everyone from going further. She quietly says, “Follow me." Parents and children give way as we march past. I am convinced, again, that somehow, despite the deafness and autism and other delayed development, our wonderful child knows exactly what to do, when.
9.08am: We’re there. Kyra smiles at the colourful play area. I say hello to her affectionate new teacher, and one of the class aides. Both smile back and look doubtfully at Kyra’s plaid shirt. I ask for a picture. They smile, pose, and still look back at her shirt, not happily. I quickly say, “I have a T-shirt." Their smiles are substantially larger, and the aide changes Kyra immediately. Sigh.
9.20am: I begin the process of saying goodbye. Or try to. One of us is teary-eyed. But Kyra’s having none of it. She picks up a ball. I blink away my tears. And smile. And wave goodbye.
The writer is a former journalist, who moved from New Delhi to Washington, DC area in 2012with her American husband and their then three-year-old daughter, to be near Johns Hopkins hospital, the Kennedy Krieger Institute and the Fairfax County Public Schools system, which has a top-notch special education programme.
The Moppet Show is a blog by Kadambari Murali Wade about her experiences of raising a child with multiple disabilities. A new blog entry will be published every Friday.
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