Go:

I hear the bedroom door creak open and jammied feet pad softly down the hall. Looking at the computer screen I note that  it’s after 6 a.m. Technically they can be up now. She pokes her sleepy head into the room rubbing her eyes.

“Momma. Eat? Drink?” Her question makes me chuckle, although I turn from her until I can pull my serious face back together, not wanting to encourage this pattern. Years ago our housecat would wake earlier and earlier to eat. Eventually I learned to switch from morning to nighttime feedings so he wouldn’t wake me earlier and earlier to be fed. That’s not really an option in this scenario, although it sure would be handy.

“No, Quail. Not yet. Potty. Then bite-bites. Then breakfast.” Her face folds up in disgust as she stomps her foot and leaves the room. Only for a minute though, she leans back in to try again.

“Book?” Signing as she says it I sigh and swivel my chair back towards her. The book. We didn’t read the book last night.

In the regular 4k class that we fought so hard to get her into, a daily part of the program is a take-home book that we are to read each night and return to exchange for another one. Last week when I was visiting the school for Zuzu’s field trip we took a brief detour to go down to the Quail’s class and peek in on her. She was tickled to see us and grinned and waved from her square on the carpet as her teacher worked through the cubbies pointing out to the children who had put their things away correctly and who still needed to try again. The first group had their backpacks hung up and their orange folders emptied with the Bookflood books returned to the basket. As she edged towards the Quail’s cubby I notice her purple backpack laying on the bottom of the cubby. Still zipped tight from the morning rush.

“Quail, come back over here let’s try again.” As the Quail hesitated my helicopter’s main rotor blade starts to turn and I stand up, then sit back down, willing my hands to stay still and let the teacher do her job. The Quail walks quietly over and starts to unzip the backpack fumbling over the plush owl attached to the front of it. The teacher looks up at me and comments that her assistant isn’t in today. Usually she helps the Quail get things where they need to go. We both pause, slightly embarrassed, not really sure what to do next. Eventually I stand and go to kneel at the Quail’s cubby as she struggles with the zipper and the teacher steps over to the next cubby. I make a mental note to add having her open and empty her backpack to our evening routine.

Except , our routines are more chaotic piles of need-tos and should-have-done-the-night-or-weekend-befores  rather than orderly-lists-ticked-off-and-put-away-before-bedtime and it’s hard to add even something this simple into our small window of time between pick up from school and drop off to sleep. Still though, the ability to easily open her backpack, take the book out of the orange folder, return the folder to the bag, zip the pack and hang it on the hook next to her coat is a daily expectation in this “regular” class. It’s those little details that in and of themselves are not complicated but added up together and explained and practiced with a 4-year-old with severe motor planning delays that we stumble over until the breakdown of the steps breaks us down.

Little things that we have to know to teach her to be independent with; like climbing into our car and further up into her car seat. Buckling and unbuckling her car seat harness.  Opening the car door to let herself out at drop off.  Buttoning  and unbuttoning her coat and then easing in and out of it. Putting her backpack on and off.  Reaching up to a hook in her cubby and looping the backpack over it. Opening the container her snack is in. Articulating clear enough so that she doesn’t end up angry with the teacher misunderstanding her lunch choice and in turn even angrier when her four-year-old mind insists on not eating the lunch that she didn’t ask for even though her four-year-old body very much needs to. Carrying her lunch tray without spilling. Punching in the code to purchase her lunch, staying in the class line as they walk from one area of the school to another without lagging behind or worse- hiding when the children are called to line up. Pulling her clothes easily on and off when she has to go potty. Hoisting herself up on the potty that, while kid-sized, are still just a bit high for her small frame. Wiping after she goes so that she doesn’t end up in pain with a rash. Climbing onto the swing she loves so dearly and not falling off of it as she wills her legs to pump at recess. It’s those little things that you can’t possibly think to prepare for until you find yourself wholly unprepared. Things that individually are simple and she’s capable of and cumulatively will cause your brain to melt. That is, what’s left of your brain, you know- the portion the children haven’t already taken for themselves.

“Yes, go get your backpack. Let’s read your book.” She runs off to the pantry and tumbles quickly back into my lap with the pack as I set my coffee down and she works her fingers around the small zipper pull. This time the book was too big for the orange folder so she quickly pulls it out of the pack easily and climbs into my lap. She pushes my hand away as I reach for the book, and traces her finger over the title. “O-N-E. She sounds it out and leans back into me with a grin.

“Yes. Good reading.  O-N-E” My finger traces the invisible line hers created connecting the sounds. “One Rainy Day. You like this one right?” She nods and turns the page as we start this story we mostly know by heart now.

Stop.