Hanging On

A few weeks ago, I drove out to Audrey's school to spend a few hours observing her there. This used to be a regular activity in my week, right up into her third grade year or so. I would watch how she was doing in the classroom, watch her teacher and other professionals interacting with her, and then compose my impressions ("Why the hell don't you have closed captioning on the videos being shown to deaf children? Duh!") into constructive suggestions ("I think the students would benefit from closed captioning; I know it would support Audrey's language learning.")

Over the years, I have found my school visits very stressful, but necessary. It was I who discovered, for example, that when they finally provided her with an FM system (a device that transmits the teacher's voice directly to her cochlear implant, to overcome the problems caused by the minor background noise of a preschool classroom), classroom staff was "using" it for weeks without having been told that it needed batteries.

Audrey can't tell me about her school day - not a single thing about it at all. So I need to be aware of what her days are like, what she is learning, and who she is with. I need to see that the people assigned to work with her are motivated and compassionate, and I need to know when anyone is hostile towards her, or incompetent. I need to see what is working for her in class, how and what she is learning. And mostly, I need to know that she is happy.

What's stressful about visiting school is not seeing and tallying up everything I think the staff could be doing differently - though I suspect this is how I have been perceived at times. It is that I cannot watch Audrey without being viscerally drawn into what she is experiencing and feeling. It's the bond you form with your infant, that helps you sense whether she is happy or hungry or uncomfortable or sick or tired - that intense "tuned-in" state of mind that wakes us at the first cry - and that tapers off as our kids grow older, and we start to interact with them in other ways. We watch them grow more independent and know that they don't need us there all the time.

For Margaux, I can look back and see some places where that bond was loosening: the first time she told me in words that she felt yucky (a few minutes before throwing up all over me); the day I dropped her at preschool and she said "Goodbye mommy!" without a second glance; the morning she hoisted her backpack and set off to walk to school by herself for the first time.

There has been no slackening of the bond with Audrey. There can be none, because she still needs me in those same ways she did as an infant - to know what is wrong with her when she has no words to tell me - and to know what is right and good for her, when she can't tell me and may not even know it for herself.

Lately, I've been exhausted. More exhausted than usual. More exhausted, in some ways, than during the five years that Audrey hardly ever slept through the night, and I was going zombie-like through my days, numb to most feelings whether of grief or elation, just trying to keep us all safe and fed and healthy. (And by "us all" I mean my girls; the question of my health and safety is pretty much reduced to "can I be there for them when they need me?")

I think this this bond with Audrey is stretching me thin. So thin it's like I can't find my own substance anymore, and just flap back and forth in the wind when I'm released for a few hours to my own devices.

It can't be sustained forever. I've only just begun admitting that to myself - and so far the admission ends right there, because what is the alternative? Who else will take this on, if I can't do it anymore?

And how can I love her, and not carry her through? What does that love look like?