I don't think this was carried over from the Titanic before she went under. A place where a writer can post something they like without necessarily asking for a critique; if I overlooked it, I rely on the mods to move this over. Anyway, the questions about hobby horses reminded me of this old (nonfiction) piece of mine.
THE DANCERS
Our four-year old (autistic) son had been demanding things he could not explain and upset when we didn’t understand. He finally fell into a full-blown meltdown, filling the living room with frustrated cries. We were tired from a week filled with daycare and work and therapy. Our life seemed like one of those marathon dances from the 1920’s, except that we didn’t recognize the music and didn’t know the steps. The day had been hard for his twin sister, too. To her “autism” meant her brother was entitled to special attention, some of which should be hers. She had learned unfairness, that she had to understand when her brother could not, that we demanded more from her than him, that she had to sometimes step out of her little girl world, be patient and cooperative even when worried and upset.
She tried so hard. That Saturday her demand to have her own needs acknowledged overcame her understanding. Her efforts to get our attention were lost in the noise of her brother’s meltdown and by our narrow parental focus.
Finally she had a minor tantrum of her own. And, as I am sorry to admit happened too often, she was the one sent to her room. She left, eyes welling with tears, and shut her door. Between her brother’s wails, I heard her soft crying.
Eventually her brother wore down, and welcome silence returned to the living room. And to my daughter’s bedroom.
I opened her door. The early afternoon sun had slipped through the blinds, reaching across the room, laying strips of white against the beige carpet. She sat on her bed, holding and talking to her newest toy, her hobbyhorse, a white, fluffy head on a long pink stick. A horse named Moonlight.
How perfect a name for that toy, soft, white, and gentle. It reminded me of an old Dean Martin standard.
I sang softly to her. “In the misty moonlight.” She looked up, eyes puffy. “By the sacred firelight.” She smiled and held her hand up, limp at the wrist. Her four-year-old image of romantic.
I kissed her hand and picked her up, slowly turning, around and around, across the floor. She laid her head on my shoulder. We glided out of her room toward the kitchen, where her mother stood. “In a faraway land, by the tropic sea sand, with your hand in my hand.” Daughter gave me a soft kiss, slipping her hand into mine. “Everything’s okay.” She closed her eyes and returned her head to my shoulder. Her mother smiled.
For that moment, anyway, I knew everything was okay.
THE DANCERS
Our four-year old (autistic) son had been demanding things he could not explain and upset when we didn’t understand. He finally fell into a full-blown meltdown, filling the living room with frustrated cries. We were tired from a week filled with daycare and work and therapy. Our life seemed like one of those marathon dances from the 1920’s, except that we didn’t recognize the music and didn’t know the steps. The day had been hard for his twin sister, too. To her “autism” meant her brother was entitled to special attention, some of which should be hers. She had learned unfairness, that she had to understand when her brother could not, that we demanded more from her than him, that she had to sometimes step out of her little girl world, be patient and cooperative even when worried and upset.
She tried so hard. That Saturday her demand to have her own needs acknowledged overcame her understanding. Her efforts to get our attention were lost in the noise of her brother’s meltdown and by our narrow parental focus.
Finally she had a minor tantrum of her own. And, as I am sorry to admit happened too often, she was the one sent to her room. She left, eyes welling with tears, and shut her door. Between her brother’s wails, I heard her soft crying.
Eventually her brother wore down, and welcome silence returned to the living room. And to my daughter’s bedroom.
I opened her door. The early afternoon sun had slipped through the blinds, reaching across the room, laying strips of white against the beige carpet. She sat on her bed, holding and talking to her newest toy, her hobbyhorse, a white, fluffy head on a long pink stick. A horse named Moonlight.
How perfect a name for that toy, soft, white, and gentle. It reminded me of an old Dean Martin standard.
I sang softly to her. “In the misty moonlight.” She looked up, eyes puffy. “By the sacred firelight.” She smiled and held her hand up, limp at the wrist. Her four-year-old image of romantic.
I kissed her hand and picked her up, slowly turning, around and around, across the floor. She laid her head on my shoulder. We glided out of her room toward the kitchen, where her mother stood. “In a faraway land, by the tropic sea sand, with your hand in my hand.” Daughter gave me a soft kiss, slipping her hand into mine. “Everything’s okay.” She closed her eyes and returned her head to my shoulder. Her mother smiled.
For that moment, anyway, I knew everything was okay.
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