Until our bubbles pop

It is impossible to know how long I’ve been grinning in my sleep, but by the time I blink, I am well into the act of smiling. Rhythmic thumps and laughter pass through the thin walls of my two-bedroom house like apparitions, making me feel not quite so lonely. Morning light pours in through the curtains, but to me, my daughter’s giggles make the sun rise.

Removing my phone from its charger, I check my messages. Two texts and one email greet me. I scan the email first. It’s from my supervisor, letting me know that my personal day has been approved. I shot her a quick thanks in reply. I was taking off from work today whether it was sanctioned or not. But for the sake of my paycheck, I am glad the time was granted. I read a text from my mother-in-law saying she would be here at 11 a.m. The next text is my brother, telling me to stay strong today. I send them both a quick reply, kiss the photo resting on my nightstand, and pull myself from the bed. My bedroom door creaks when I open it, and I know my daughter hears it. The springs of her little trampoline cry out but her happy squeals only increase.

I open her door to find my bliss. Named for the feeling I felt when I looked into her eyes. Though those eyes barely meet mine anymore, I know that they are sparkling with mirth. They are warm brown to match the rest of her and always dancing. Bliss sees me in the doorway, yet instead of running to me, she runs away and looks back, waiting, wanting me to give chase. I do. I sprint to her bed. My curled fingers find tucks, folds, armpits, and toes. Her laughter makes me whole.

“Oh,” she says.

“On,” I reply.

In the minute before my mind registers that I am no longer a spring chicken, I am on all fours, palms pressed flat, my old knees overpowered by hardwood floors. Bliss bucks and rides my back like I’m the biggest piggy in the world before my bladder reminds me that I just woke up. I sit Bliss back down. She, a ball of chaos wrapped in a 4-year-old’s body, runs back to her trampoline and resumes her bouncing. I, however, need the wall, the floor, and her Princess Jasmine bed to get back on my feet. My bones protest and threaten to strike if I continue to forget my age and I make a mental note to give Yoga another try.

I pad to the bathroom with its peeling wallpaper and its claw foot tub. The entire room is in desperate need of an update but I neither have the time nor money. Relieved, I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. I spend a while looking in the mirror, examining the high school acne that followed me well into my forties, the strains of gray hair that had multiplied from the month before, and the frown lines around my mouth that deepen with every passing day. Whoever said “black don’t crack” has obviously never had to care for a special needs child. Or has had to endure the loss of a spouse. The ups and downs of the past year are etched into the crow’s feet forming around my eyes. With a last look to the mirror, I sigh, turn off the light, and prepare for the day ahead.

***

“Don, don, don. Stah, stah, stah,” Bliss says.

“Down, down, down. Stomp, stomp, stomp,” I reply. We narrate our movements until we reach the bottom of the stairs. Across a living room that is littered with building blocks, crayons, and hardened Playdoh, Bliss immediately runs to her favorite pile of Barbie parts.

“Owls,” she says.

“Dolls,” I reply.

I help her place her toys into her favorite purse, grab her communication book, and head to the kitchen. In the center of the floor, Bliss hums. The coffee machine goes on first. It hums as well. While I wait for the water to heat up, I set the bacon to the pan, and now I’m humming. The kitchen becomes an orchestra of songs and sizzles. 

Once breakfast is cooked, I wipe away the sweat that has nothing to do with me being near a hot stove. I grab Bliss from the floor and sit her in her highchair. She frowns, angry that her dolls are out of reach. I tear a small square from the Velcro lining her communication book. I gesture to the picture of a kid holding a spoon up to his mouth. Beneath the boy, the word “eat” is printed in bold letters.

“Eat-eat?” I say.

She brightens. So does the rest of the room.

Bliss swings her legs as I place bits of bacon –and to my growing horror, not one piece of fruit or vegetable — onto her plate. Her tiny hands are lightning fast from her plate to her greasy mouth. I rip the strips into miniature bites and place them individually before her. She sees more bacon on my plate than there is on hers and grunts loudly. I shake my head. She slaps the highchair’s tray. I grab another picture. On this one, a turtle lumbers.

“Slow.”

Bliss is not blissful. She grunts again to let me know that I have displeased her but I only shake my head and reach for another picture. I hold them both up for her to see.

The picture of the boy moves closer to her, then the turtle. “We have to eat…slowly.”

But Bliss does not want to eat slow. She doesn’t want a picture. She does not want to learn. She wants to eat-eat her bacon fast-fast and she is ready for a war.

She shoves her empty plate and it crashes to the floor. I quickly thank God for inventing plastic before my gratitude disappears in a flood of sudden pain. Bliss has a chunk of my hair in one tiny fist, and she is not letting go.

Punish the behavior, not the child. The words of Bliss’ Speech Therapist ring loud and clear in my head. The moment it does, I am convinced that the woman has never dealt with a non-verbal autistic toddler before. It’s like trying to tell someone to only taste the beans in a burrito. Everything is consumed as one. The book, and the pictures-- they are only a way to help bridge the gap between what Bliss wants to communicate and what she cannot say. Everything else is spoken through behavior. On most days. Behavior is all that I have. What is a parent supposed to do when their child is a cyclone of smiles, frowns, and ever-changing sudden moods?

I have to remind myself to remain calm as I uncurl her fingers, one by one. And then I pop the back of her little hand.

“No!” I say in my firm voice and hold up the picture of a circle with a line threw it. “We do not grab mommy’s hair.”

Her eyes well up. Her bottom lip quivers. And another bacon Armageddon is about to commence. Will it pass me by, or will it wreck me like it has done so many times before? I brace for impact. She tries again to reach for me. I back away. She tries to rip out her own hair. I hold her hands. She whips her little body back and forth as her feet repeatedly connect with my already bruised shins. For the next ten minutes neither one of us gives in. I learned from times before that the easier I let up, the more frequent the crying episodes became.

So now I wait her out. The wind. The rain. The lightning. I’m a lonely piece of driftwood along her raging rapids. I go where she wants me to go, and I stay until she lets me drown. I sit in the middle of her hurricane with only my waning patience to hold onto.

Finally, the kicks slow as she wears herself out. The tears roll with less velocity. The roof of me has blown away but my foundation is strong. Tomorrow I will rebuild again. I wipe her face with a paper towel and then place a sausage link onto her plate. The sun peaks from behind the clouds, checking if the coast is clear. It is, for now.

Instead of one piece, I slide two strips of bacon onto a new plate, and Bliss flashes me a grin.

***

“Uh, uh, uh. Boo, boo, boo” she says.

“Up, up, up. Boom, boom, boom,” I reply as we stump up the stairs. After hands are washed and teeth are brushed, Bliss races to my room, her hands already working at the tags of her pamper.

“No,” I call after her. She abandons her goal of getting naked. She belly flops onto the bed which is twice as big as hers and thus, the perfect place to practice her latest gymnastic routine.

“Be careful,” I call halfheartedly, but it’s no use. Bliss’ party bus has left the station. I lay pillows down on the floor anticipating numerous crash landings. Then I pop a Tylenol and lay out our clothes. I don a loose white blouse and turn just in time to see an awkward tumble send Bliss crashing onto a floor cushioned by pillows. Her fun-time party-bus is on “E” and now she is rubbing her elbow. I sit down across from her and wait. She sees me, crawls into my lap, and covers her eyes. I ride the wave along with her. I let her feel me there, solid and sure. A rock she can always rest upon. I sit with her until her world settles down. I rock and sing her favorite songs until her labored breaths taper off. Her bus is all gassed-up. She jumps back onto the bed. I finish getting us dressed.

                                                            ***

The doorbell rings at 10:58 a.m. Bliss jerks suddenly and covers her ears. I silently count to ten, using the moment to push the anger back down. Bliss hates the loud doorbell and the sign taped to the door urges everyone not to use it. If it was any other day, I would have made a big deal out of it but today I don’t. I open the door and give my mother-in-law, Lillian, a brief hug. With so much on our minds, neither one of us has much to say to one another. Dressed in the same muted colors as me, her clothes are pressed and fit her better than my wrinkled outfit currently does. She runs over to give Bliss a dozen wet kisses and luckily, Bliss takes them well.

As I finish putting on my shoes, Lillian runs a hand through Bliss’ hair, trying to tame her wild curls. I clear my throat. With my husband no longer around to intervene, my mother-in-law has to learn some boundaries if she wants to stay in Bliss’ life. Lillian brushes a doll’s hair instead. I continue putting on my shoes.

                                                   ***

In the car, Lillian drones on and on, as though to make up for our silent morning greeting. She talks about my uncle-in-law’s upcoming appointment with a Rheumatologist. His gout has apparently made a return.

“Really?” I say. It’s the only reply I can muster. Lillian talks about the sale going on at Kohl’s and the outrageous price of gas until we both spot the sign for the cemetery. Our conversation stops. The blinker signaling a right turn and the wet smacking of Bliss eating her goldfish crackers are the only sounds that fill the space. Lillian parks the car, and we all file out, leaving our bags behind. With one hand gripping flowers for all I’m worth, I take Bliss by the hand and guide her down the winding paved trail. Passing the granite angels and headstones that rush by me in a blur, we walk into the community mausoleum, the best my parents-in-law could afford. Light pours in the stained-glass windows and pools onto the polished marble floors. My mother-in-law hangs back while I forge ahead. When Bliss and I reach the stone rectangle, my legs are already trembling.

I stare at the simple plaque in scripted with my husband’s name and do not bother to stop the tears from spilling down my face.

Marcus H. Johnson. Date of birth, 8-3-78. The date of his death is marked one year ago today.

I place the flowers into the holder beside his name. I run my finger along the cold stone and struggle to control my sobs. The stitching in my heart tries to rip apart but one squeeze of Bliss’ hand keeps the rupture at bay. She needs me to be strong. Lillian’s shadow falls over me, her eyes red, her face wet. We stand next to one another, our heads bent low and close, and we shudder and whimper in the quietness. I pick my daughter up and guide her hand to her father’s tomb. Her fingertips run gently along the letters and numbers. Having no idea of what she’s touching or what is happening, she giggles. A terrible sound in a place like this but I don’t care. I hold her tight, trying to siphon some of that happiness for the moment if only to learn how to breathe again.

At first, I had tried to force Bliss to remember her father. After the accident, I would emerge from my blanket cocoon and sit her down on my lap. Then I would place photo after photo into her hands and point to the man staring lovingly down at the newborn he held.

“Da-da” I would say. “Da-da,” Slowly. Exaggerated. Exhausting the word in her ears and mine. And when she finally said it back, the emotions that overwhelmed me were enough to bring me out of the darkest part of my closet, where I still kept a box of his clothes. The joy I felt was enormous. The accomplishment I achieved was akin to climbing Mount Everest.

“Our daughter remembers you,” I had whispered, feeling like I could take on anything that came my way. That feeling retreated when Bliss saw a photo of the Former President of the United States.

“Da-da” she had said, her eyes fixed on Barack Obama. I had tried to correct the problem when it happened, pointing to my husband’s pictures so much it felt psychotic. But when it happened again and again, with a picture of my brother, with a random male model in a magazine, with a photo of actor Taye Diggs, I had to face the truth. For another child, a photo would have been enough to hold the place of a person in their mind. For my child, however, that would not be the case. At least not in the time I needed her to. Devastation crushed me, crashed through me, all over again, bringing with it the night I got the phone call. Your husband’s car has crashed. I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it…

Didn’t make it. Won’t make it. Not coming home. Never again. “Stop torturing your daughter. She’s too young to understand. Pick up your heart, dust it off, take a shower, and LIVE AGAIN.

I placed all but one photo back in the box and every morning I kissed the one remaining on my nightstand. Maybe one day, I will bring them back out again, if Bliss asks to see them or I just feel the need to stroll down memory lane, but for now, I will have to do the remembering for the both of us.

                                                         ***

Lillian drops us off at home and promises to come back over two days from now. I wave and try to get Bliss to do the same, but she’s too busy studying a ladybug to care. The house is sweltering. I forgot to leave the air conditioning on again and it’s going to take a while for the old hunk of bolts to cool us off. I glance around the small, cluttered living room. Bliss and I could either sweat in here and watch another Disney Princess movie while I grade papers, or we could sweat at the playground. Bliss rolling back and forth on the floor is all the answer I need.

After her pamper is changed and lunch is had, I don my favorite yoga pants and hoodie with a faded logo and we make our way back outside. Bliss can hardly keep still enough for me to close the door. A diaper bag slides down one arm. Her communication book slides down the other. The key misses the lock again and again, to my growing frustration. I make Bliss climb onto my back while I grasp the knob. The excited shrieks fill my ears and the death hold around my neck makes me swoon. I lock the door and guide Bliss back to the ground. Rubbing my throat, we walk down the street, Bliss dancing to her own music. She hops over every other crack in the sidewalk, making up the rules of her game as she goes.

“Car. Bus. Dog. Bark Bark! Cat. Meow. Yes. No. Tree. House. Door. Jump. Baby. Don’t eat that! Up. Down. Stop. Go!”

We continue our one-way conversation until we reach the gates of the local park. It takes an act of God to keep her hand in mine when Bliss spots the brightly painted playground. She climbs up the steps and slides down the slide, getting dirt all over her clothes. For once, I don’t care. The black leggings camouflage the stains and the yellow sunflowers of her shirt look as though they’ve finally found a home. Bliss babbles and what the trees echo back to her is flawless. Among the foliage, Bliss does not have a speech delay. She is coherent and she is perfect. When she is tired of the slide, she runs up to me and watches as I pull the bottle of bubbles from her bag. She bounces on the balls of her feet. She is the center of my panorama.

I blow. She reaches. I float. She dances. Tomorrow, I will be a middle-aged widow with a 4-year-old autistic toddler. Tomorrow, my daughter will be different than her peers. Her squeals will draw stares. Her sudden meltdowns because the lights are too bright and the sounds are too loud will cause people to whisper and criticize her home training.  

But today, at this moment, she and I are as free as the orbs of air moving aimlessly around us. Encased. Enclosed. Enveloped in our own world. I smile as I watch her, so eager to catch every bubble, yet successful in catching none.

My Bliss. My Blessing.

Today, we will live, and laugh, and forget.

Until our bubbles pop.