I vividly remember the day that Pooka received her MMR vaccine. It was a sunny May day. My bumbling little toddler just began walking - what a milestone! Pooka was so strategic in almost everything she did. So much determination, unimaginable determination of a little person, trying to find their way in this world. Beginning at eight months old she could be seen climbing up and down the stairs. But she wasn't trying to climb the steps; she was trying to walk up and down the steps. She would practice over and over again. I wasn't sure if she just had some fascination with climbing or if she felt that by walking up or down in an upright position - it meant that she was that much closer to being like the giants amongst her. Climbing or should I say, walking up the steps was just one of the traits she showed that told me she did not want to be left behind. Her verbalization and object association also seemed slightly advanced at eight months. I can recall her picking up the telephone, screaming out "TeeTee," an endearing term used for her Aunt. She was so interested in people, always delighted to be shared with strangers. Never flinching at an unfamiliar face or crying when left with someone she didn't know. At eight months old, she was a miniature social butterfly. Pooka loved people. She loved watching people, she loved being around people. This is why on this sunny day in May, as we approached the familiarity of the pediatrician's office, I was completely baffled at her response.
Pooka had no interest in approaching all the children and adults that could be seen on the other side of the glass door of the doctor's office. She had no interest in the smiles of strangers and absolutely no interest in spreading her butterfly wings in this very social atmosphere. She was in fact, repelled by the thought of even walking toward the office door. Pooka's behavior was so odd and off on this May day that I actually paused before entering into the familiar setting. In that moment of pause, I wondered what exactly she was trying to demonstrate to me...my little bumbling toddler that can only successfully say up to five words. What was being communicated here on the steps of the peditrician's office - me nudging my bumbling toddler forward while she screams and runs the other way? Should I not allow our kind, jovial doctor to inject toxic chemicals into my baby's body? Should I wait or cancel this procedure? I mean since Pooka has been alive, all of fifteen months, she's probably been to the familiar pediatrician's office more than a dozen times. More than half of the visits have been for vaccinations. This was routine, a routine that even at fifteen months, she knows all too well.
I never had many doubts about the administration of vaccines. As far as I know, vaccines are necessary. They keep our children safe from disease and infection. I had all of my shots as a kid. I cannot tell you one single person I know that has had mumps or measles. I'm an 80's baby, we've all gotten vaccinated. In fact, the only childhood illness that I recall everyone having is the chicken pox, and I never even contracted that as a child. Now with the varicella vaccine, kids won't even contract chicken pox. This is a good thing, right? No, this is a GREAT thing!
Further quelling any doubt that may have erupted surrounding the safety of vaccinations are the government mandates related to vaccine administration. Yes, I realize my girls tend to get a little sick shortly after they've been given a dose of infectious chemicals but vaccination is a REQUIREMENT. A government mandated REQUIREMENT! I mean, how will I be able to register my kids for school without vaccinations. And really, I don't want my kids to DIE from mumps or rubella because, they can die from these diseases, can't they? I haven't bothered to look up the instances of death or total incapacitation related to catching one of these diseases. What's the point in researching vaccine side effects? Vaccines have saved the entire world from deadly diseases. Mankind has come a long way and has made this magical solution available to children everywhere. And I live in the USA. The United States of America is the best, brightest country in the world. Here in the USA, we have an FDA and the FDA would never, EVER recommend and promote products that aren't overall beneficial for their fellow Americans. I'm an American. My daughter is an American. America takes care of American's.
And here I am, standing with my bumbling toddler, who is running away from the doorway of safety. As I glance at her, trying to get a clue, I don't see frustration in her eyes...I don't see anger or defeat...I don't see hatred in the eyes of Pooka...I see fear. As I pick her up and make my way across the safety threshold, I feel as though I've made the right decision, the smart decision, the healthy decision for the best future for my baby. Pooka doesn't know any better, she's only 1 year old. I sit waiting with slightly unsettled anxiety, my bumbling toddler weaving her way out of my arms and dashing toward the glass doors with tears in her eyes, crying...pleading. If she could only tell me what was troubling her. I begin to feel that maybe I shouldn't pursue this today. But then again, what could go wrong? My three year old has had all these shots and she is absolutely fine. I am confident in my choice to stay and wait for our turn to meet our destiny.
© Heather Berg 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Saturday, November 5, 2011
The Dance of Life
What I would give for a few more moments in time, moments for sleeping or silent reflection before starting another day. I thought Saturday's were for resting. The first day of rest after five straight mornings of the hustle and bustle of boxed lunches, book bags, school buses, and finally arriving at work seven minutes after check in time. I know, I know, I'm trying to get the kids out earlier but there's always some unexpected crisis in the morning. There's always someone that doesn't want to wake up. Then there are morning tantrums and there is always that someone that refuses breakfast, or doesn't like their outfit, or doesn't want to brush their teeth. Thank God for Saturday! A day of rest, or at least that's the way I imagine it the few moments before reality hits and I realize that Saturday's in this household are as busy as a weekday. Saturdays are for grocery shopping, house cleaning, washing clothes, and weekend dinner preparation. Saturdays are for running miscellaneous errands and taking young daughters to weekend activities and possibly a park or two. After rolling out of bed with some defiance and much resistance, I set up a mental plan of our activities for the day.
About an hour later, we're all together, dressed and fed and ready to march out the door, myself with two little girls in tow. One is dressed in a pretty pink leotard with a sparkly tutu, the other in a plum sweatsuit and graphic tee. The latter is only three years old and it has already been established that her favorite color is anything in the purple family. She's got everything you can imagine in purple - purple sneakers, purple socks, purple coat, purple toothbrush, purple boots, purple book bag, purple, purple, purple! I'm always amazed how her face lights up every time I pull out the purple item of the day. It really doesn't matter what the item is, it could be purple tights, or a purple hair bow, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, the sight of purple never fails to ignite the spark of contentment that's seen all over her face from the glint of a smirk to a slight sparkle in her eyes that's oh so evident once the purple item is revealed. At the moment, she is entirely happy in her plum sweatsuit, while her sister can't be happier in her pink tutu and matching leotard. It has always surprised me how different children can be from each other. Each has their own personality and unique quirks that make them individuals regardless of their genetic predisposition. I've learned that genetics really don't impact personality traits. The pink leotard and tutu are really just reflections of the personality of the five year old girl that feels like a princess every time she puts them on. She happens to be the perfect embodiment of a girl, or what we expect of girls from their behavior to the type shoes they pick out to wear. Today, her tutu is perfect for the occasion, our first stop on our list of the days activities. As we arrive, we are just in time for warm ups. I take a seat as the pink tutu disappears through the door leading to a room filled with little girls, all wearing pink tutu's and leotards. The three year old, Pooka and I sit in the waiting area. We'll be here for about an hour. There's one small observation window where those in the waiting area can observe our young daughter's plies and pointed toes. I prefer to sit quietly, catching up on some casual reading or homework for my financial management course. My three year old, Pooka is occupied, manipulating some preferred activity that typically keeps her busy and for the most part, quiet so as not to disturb observers consumed by the visions on the other side of the glass observation window.
Pooka's preferred activity typically keeps her quiet - today I'm sensing a bit of frustration. As she is manipulating her stimulation toy, her tone elevates and it seems that her preferred activity has begun to irritate her. She's not yelling or crying, just slightly annoyed. I reach out to her to offer some support, I give her a gentle rub on her thigh. She gazes up at me, looking through me, it looks like she's looking right into my eyes, without looking at me at all. Not a look of judgement, mostly a look of observation, almost like she's looking at her own reflection roll off the darkness of my iris. It seems as if she hasn't noticed my gentle strokes on her thigh based on the continuous elevation of her grunts and shrieks. I hadn't paid much attention to the scene around us, as my focus had been on resolving Pooka's internal conflict. When I did finally realize there were indeed other observers of Pooka's distress, my focus changed to seek out an immediate remedy to her elevating discontentment. As I reviewed my surroundings I began to notice other's judgment and interpretations of what was unfolding. In this room filled with family and extended family members of the young performers, I almost forgot about judgement and prejudice, especially judgement of children. Yet here, in this environment, judgement prevailed. I look up and catch the eyes of some young girl's grandfather, and his constant staring, in a questionable glare, almost hateful, beaming - carried with the confidence of faulting me, the mother. I try to ignore him and continue to offer some level of tangible comfort to Pooka. As much as I would like to, I can't ignore his expression as he stares at Pooka and looks upon her, as if she is inhuman, deranged. The other mothers in the room have watchful eyes that are more of a concerned wonder, as the level of comfort is interrupted and forced smiles and giggles replace the initial confused response. And here I am, trying to replace the comfortable atmosphere that was just lost, but it's too late. I want to scream out "SHE HAS AUTISM!", instead I make a botched attempt to grab the child's attention and redirect her away from doing the tensing gestures and loud "Grrrs" like a bear, but the child resists and resumes the behavior that has created the uneasy atmosphere. I am left, now also staring, but not at the child. I'm staring at the dark faces of parents and grandparents that are staring boldly back at me. I try to hide the tears that are swelling up in my eyes, but it's too late - they're falling now. The tears are almost comforting as the stares are lowered and the attention of the onlookers is redirected to something else... Dance class. Yes, of course, dance class. It's over now. Time to gather up their own children and go on with their day.
© Heather Berg 2011
About an hour later, we're all together, dressed and fed and ready to march out the door, myself with two little girls in tow. One is dressed in a pretty pink leotard with a sparkly tutu, the other in a plum sweatsuit and graphic tee. The latter is only three years old and it has already been established that her favorite color is anything in the purple family. She's got everything you can imagine in purple - purple sneakers, purple socks, purple coat, purple toothbrush, purple boots, purple book bag, purple, purple, purple! I'm always amazed how her face lights up every time I pull out the purple item of the day. It really doesn't matter what the item is, it could be purple tights, or a purple hair bow, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, the sight of purple never fails to ignite the spark of contentment that's seen all over her face from the glint of a smirk to a slight sparkle in her eyes that's oh so evident once the purple item is revealed. At the moment, she is entirely happy in her plum sweatsuit, while her sister can't be happier in her pink tutu and matching leotard. It has always surprised me how different children can be from each other. Each has their own personality and unique quirks that make them individuals regardless of their genetic predisposition. I've learned that genetics really don't impact personality traits. The pink leotard and tutu are really just reflections of the personality of the five year old girl that feels like a princess every time she puts them on. She happens to be the perfect embodiment of a girl, or what we expect of girls from their behavior to the type shoes they pick out to wear. Today, her tutu is perfect for the occasion, our first stop on our list of the days activities. As we arrive, we are just in time for warm ups. I take a seat as the pink tutu disappears through the door leading to a room filled with little girls, all wearing pink tutu's and leotards. The three year old, Pooka and I sit in the waiting area. We'll be here for about an hour. There's one small observation window where those in the waiting area can observe our young daughter's plies and pointed toes. I prefer to sit quietly, catching up on some casual reading or homework for my financial management course. My three year old, Pooka is occupied, manipulating some preferred activity that typically keeps her busy and for the most part, quiet so as not to disturb observers consumed by the visions on the other side of the glass observation window.
Pooka's preferred activity typically keeps her quiet - today I'm sensing a bit of frustration. As she is manipulating her stimulation toy, her tone elevates and it seems that her preferred activity has begun to irritate her. She's not yelling or crying, just slightly annoyed. I reach out to her to offer some support, I give her a gentle rub on her thigh. She gazes up at me, looking through me, it looks like she's looking right into my eyes, without looking at me at all. Not a look of judgement, mostly a look of observation, almost like she's looking at her own reflection roll off the darkness of my iris. It seems as if she hasn't noticed my gentle strokes on her thigh based on the continuous elevation of her grunts and shrieks. I hadn't paid much attention to the scene around us, as my focus had been on resolving Pooka's internal conflict. When I did finally realize there were indeed other observers of Pooka's distress, my focus changed to seek out an immediate remedy to her elevating discontentment. As I reviewed my surroundings I began to notice other's judgment and interpretations of what was unfolding. In this room filled with family and extended family members of the young performers, I almost forgot about judgement and prejudice, especially judgement of children. Yet here, in this environment, judgement prevailed. I look up and catch the eyes of some young girl's grandfather, and his constant staring, in a questionable glare, almost hateful, beaming - carried with the confidence of faulting me, the mother. I try to ignore him and continue to offer some level of tangible comfort to Pooka. As much as I would like to, I can't ignore his expression as he stares at Pooka and looks upon her, as if she is inhuman, deranged. The other mothers in the room have watchful eyes that are more of a concerned wonder, as the level of comfort is interrupted and forced smiles and giggles replace the initial confused response. And here I am, trying to replace the comfortable atmosphere that was just lost, but it's too late. I want to scream out "SHE HAS AUTISM!", instead I make a botched attempt to grab the child's attention and redirect her away from doing the tensing gestures and loud "Grrrs" like a bear, but the child resists and resumes the behavior that has created the uneasy atmosphere. I am left, now also staring, but not at the child. I'm staring at the dark faces of parents and grandparents that are staring boldly back at me. I try to hide the tears that are swelling up in my eyes, but it's too late - they're falling now. The tears are almost comforting as the stares are lowered and the attention of the onlookers is redirected to something else... Dance class. Yes, of course, dance class. It's over now. Time to gather up their own children and go on with their day.
© Heather Berg 2011
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