Sunday, October 8

Dear Lizzie,

I have just dropped you off at a birthday party for a friend at a local kids’ restaurant. When I last saw you, you were climbing up, up into one of those tubular mazes that are part of the landscape of your childhood. You blew me a kiss from on high, all bright eyes and excitement, then turned to join in the fun.

It has been over five years since you came home to us on that sunny March morning. We have had six vacations at the beach with my family since then. On this last, you and I rode a kayak out to sea with Uncle Eric, and you waved to everyone on the shore as we crested the waves together. You have been a lamb, a mouse, an angel, a mermaid, and a cowgirl for Hallowe’en. You have danced on tiptoe across a stage and sung “Away in A Manger” in a church chorus. You have toboganned down a snowy hill with Daddy, jitterbugged with Nanny, fed the sparrows with Great-Grandma. You have been to Venezuela.

You have just finished your first month of kindergarten. When anyone asks you how school is going, you answer “Terrific!” And it is.

That’s not to say that life is without its challenges. Your early beginnings continue to affect the person you are. You have fine and gross motor delays and such things as buttoning your coat or catching a ball can be frustrating to you. As an infant and toddler, you received occupational and physical therapy through an early intervention program; now you receive these services in school.

Layered upon your fine and gross motor delays are problems of sensory integration. Your central nervous system developed differently than those of other children. Most children automatically integrate countless bits of sensory input, but, in people with sensory integration issues, all the various input from the senses can be overwhelming and hard to organize. You often find toys that require manipulation frustrating, clothing uncomfortable, and lights and sounds overstimulating. You may fall out of a chair because it is difficult for you to maintain your orientation in space.

Your occupational therapist works with you on sensory integration, and I follow through at home. You are very skilled at “thinking through” things that come naturally to other people, such as descending the stairs. Sometimes you talk your way through tasks – “now I’m going downstairs. One foot, two feet, one foot, two feet…” – and this greatly helps you master new skills. By the end of the day though, you’re exhausted and brittle. One of your therapists told me that your getting through your day was similar to an adult driving on ice for the whole day. The vigilance you bring to everything you do depletes you.

This vigilance can also deplete you emotionally. You are prone to temper outbursts and tough-talking stand-offs. You and I go toe-to-toe frequently, over everything from brushing your teeth to buckling your seat belt, and you don’t back down. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard “You’re not the boss of me!” I try to choose my battles and to remind my self that your tenacity will serve you well as a woman in this world, but during these early years, it is a challenge indeed.

On a positive note, you have never needed speech therapy; in fact, you began talking so early and have continued to talk so incessantly that speech therapy might have done me in.

One of your most significant sensory issues has to do with your hearing. Your hearing is hyperacusive, meaning that you are extremely sensitive to noise. Many sounds actually cause you pain. We avoid parades, the circus, and, especially, fireworks. (Boy, did we learn the hard way on that one.) Your teachers buffer you during fire drills and school assemblies, anyplace where the noise is harsh or amplified. At Aunt Jamie’s wedding to Uncle Jeff, you were terrified of the “man with the big voice”, the d-jay.

As an outgrowth of your time on the ventilator, you are highly susceptible to respiratory infections. You have had pneumonia five times since you were born, although you’ve only been hospitalized once since you’ve been home.

In terms of your vision, a scar has left you legally blind in your left eye. This is not correctable. You have fairly good vision in your right eye and wear glasses, primarily for reasons of protection rather than correction.

Some people would say that God didn’t keep his promises. No, you don’t have perfect eyesight, normal hearing, or an even temperament. Your health can be fragile. But Jesus’ words were prophetic. He told me it would be all right, and it is.

None of the above describes who you are. You are so much more, Elizabeth, than the sum of your parts. You compose yourself into this funny, frank, and sweet child, who could charm the crown off a king.

You approach life as though it were one big party in your honor. You know no strangers, introducing yourself to other kids and adults with a springy self-assurance. Your imagination is one of your greatest strengths, and you spend hours in melodramatic play, always starring as the lovely, wise, kind princess. You love to sing, to have someone read to you, and are on the brink of reading yourself. One of your favorite fictional characters is Madeline (who “inside is tall”). That’s you.

You’re pretty tall on the outside, too. At nearly six years of age, you weigh 40 pounds and measure 44 inches. Your face has filled out and lost its premie thinness. We call you our big girl, and you are.

The little girl of our family is your little sister, Emily Caitlin, who was born two years ago. Emily was a full-term (eight pounds, three ounces!) baby, delivered by Dr. Bottoms and tended to by Margie and Kathleen, who came into the operating room from the NICU to help with her birth. You were born to the role of big sister, Elizabeth, and when the two of you aren’t quarreling over who gets to wear the Pocahontas necklace or use the Jasmine placemat, you and Emily love each other very much.

Pam is going to college and living on her own now. She is usually the purchaser of the Pocahontas necklaces and Jasmine placemats. Your father is surrounded by girls, by hairbows and shiny shoes, tutus and tiaras, and he takes it all in stride.

Our lives are busy, balancing the blessings and demands of children, marriage, home, work, church, friends, and family. Most of the time, we march through our days, looking forward instead of back, and I often lose sight of where we started and even of how lucky we are. It is the small, true moments of childhood that remind me and bring me to tears: you, pedaling your tricycle for the first time down the driveway, closing your eyes when you blow out your birthday candles, climbing higher and higher at today’s party.

Several months ago, we were riding together in the car and listening to a children’s tape when the song “Miracles Can Happen” came on. From the back seat came your voice. “Mama,” you asked, “do you remember when I was a miracle?”

“I do remember,” I said. “You were, Elizabeth. You are. And I’ll never forget.”

All Grown Up