I would comment all the time when pregnant with Christian that he did not ever seem to sleep. Because he was not my first baby I started feeling movements early, as is typical. And it seemed that once I became aware of him, I was continually aware. What seemed at first to be a perceptual flutter became eventually what felt like internal tae kwon do. He just does not ever stop moving, I would tell my doctor. Until one day, he suddenly did. I rushed to the doctor- baby seemed ok she said. But my blood pressure was very high and that might have been stressing the baby. I was already thirty seven weeks. We’ll induce she said. How is tomorrow look for you?
Tomorrow looked…well, terrifying. I was attempting a natural birth after a c-section and was deathly afraid of all the pitocin stories that I had heard. As it worked out, after seventeen hours on the dreaded pitocin I had a c-sectionanyway.
Christian began screaming as soon as his head was delivered. Literally. Lying on the table I hear this ear piercing shriek, followed by this usual trembling newborn wail. Just like any other newborn wail, but three times as loud. Is he born, I asked Howie, surprised that it seemed to all be happening so quickly. Howie took a look on the other side of the drape. Uh, he replied, not quite. Only Christian’s head and shoulders were free of me and he was already screaming. He required no suctioning, no skin massage, certainly no slaps. My Trinidadian doctor exclaimed in Trini patois, “Oh, Gawd, dis chile have a BIG mout eh boy!”
Christian loves to hear that story and has heard it so many times that he prompts me on. And then the doctor said what? That I had a big “mout?” And he throws his head back and gives a loud belly laugh, which is the only way Christian ever laughs. Much like he does most everything else; with gusto and enthusiasm. He was born at two twenty two in the morning. A magic time I thought. The perfect hour for the entrance of son number two. Howie brought him over so I could see him. He was all nose and black hair with ruby red lips still opened in a squall. When he would pause to catch his breath and closed his mouth his lower lip trembled vigorously. Do you like him, his father asks. And you said….. prompts Christian.
And I said, I love him.
A couple hours later the three of us are alone in my hospital room. Howie has passed out in the chair and Christian and I are nursing. He nursed vigorously and it seemed, insatiably. Nurses kept coming and going, checking my blood pressure, my catheter, my blood gasses. And each time they would comment- that baby still awake? Eventually a nurse comes and takes him to the nursery so I can sleep. When we are discharged two days later things are much the same. Christian nurses for hours, then sleeps for forty five minutes and is up again, wailing, eager to nurse again. By the time he is twelve weeks old, Christian who was eight pounds, ten ounces at birth, tips the scales at twenty two pounds. I am exhausted and drained. I was up, almost all night, every night. I would watch reruns of Magnum P.I., on at one in the morning on the Superstation out of Atlanta, Georgia. I look at the series all the way through to the finale and sob when Magnum dies – because it was sad and I had not known previously that this was how the series ended, because I was beyond stressed and exhausted which makes every mishap take on titanic and tragic proportions. And perhaps because I was at a loss what to do at one in the morning from here on in.
We buy a swing, hoping that this will calm and sooth him and maybe buy me some nap time. But where the swing had lulled Timothy, the movements made Christian frantic. He liked sitting in his carrier but for only short periods and only if he could see me and only if I was moving around, doing interesting things. So I cooked dinner with him on the counter in his carrier and I would move around the kitchen with his big, round, dark eyes following me everywhere I went. That is my most vivid memory of Christian’s infancy. The huge dark eyes that missed nothing. I had noticed some soft neurological signs like a startle reflex that did not resolve with maturity the way it was supposed to, and an extreme aversion to loud noises- unless they were generated by himself. Then he could tolerate them for hours it seemed. I mentioned these to his doctor, who was not concerned. But I was unconvinced.
My theory is that because Christian seemed always to be awake, always being spoken to and sung to, always being ported about every where, his developmental mile stones speeded up.
He walked early. My baby book says ten months. It was not long after that when he began to run. Mostly away from me. Mostly into the arms of danger. He was reckless and impulsive. Christian had to be watched continually – turn your back and he’d dismantle the house. He could climb anything, slither anywhere, and break anything. Everything. Having been the mother of placid Timothy never prepared me for this wild child.
According to my baby book Christian began talking before he was one. And when I say talking, I mean speech. Not “mama”, “dada”. I have video of our first trip to the Smokey Mountains in North Carolina the spring Christian was thirteen months old. Christian in his car seat giving a running commentary of every thing he sees out his window. Mama what’s that? Mountains? You see the mountains Mama? I see the mountains.
Christian loved animals. Loved visiting the pet store to see the puppies. (I want one!! Get me one!!) And loved the zoo. Especially elephants. The huge bull elephant with enormous tusks stood in his paddock one day, looking at us, only the moat and a low hedge separating us. Christian was then not yet two as he stood gazing back at the enormous animal. He then raised an arm in the air, in greeting. The elephant raised his trunk in reply. How funny, I say. It looks like he is waving back at you. He IS waving back at me, says baby Christian. He does it again- raises his arm in the air and again the elephant follows suit. How strange. Do it again, I say. He complies. And again the huge beast raises his trunk in salute. Timothy, aged six and hating to be outdone pushes Christian away and says- Let me try. He does. Nothing. He tries again. Nothing. Christian raises his arm one more time, so does the elephant. I love him, he says. I want to pack him.
Pack him, I ask. Pack him how?
Pack him on his head silly, like this. And he demonstrates on Timothy.
Oh, I say. You want to PAT him.
Yes, says Christian with exasperation. I want to pack him because I love him.
I know the reasonable explanation for this is that the elephant was trained to follow a hand signal that looked like the gesture Christian was making. I prefer to think that the wise beast recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one.
The neurological soft signs continued to plague me. And my doctor continued to dismiss them. Christian was hypersensitive to all stimuli it seemed, not just sound. Strong smells, unusual textures, strange faces all caused panic. We could not go to the movies with him- there is no way he could tolerate surround sound and would cover his ears and shriek and shake and on his first birthday his cousins and brother “whisper-sang” Happy Birthday in barely audible tones so as not to make him cry. He was a very stereotypical eater- no textures that were slimy or grainy. Those would make him gag. His clothes needed to be unadorned cotton. No synthetic fibers, no appliqués of any kind. No tags. Every Halloween picture until he was six or so shows Christian shrieking as I insisted upon taking at least one picture in the costume that had cost me thirty dollars. He would choose them himself- but could not wear the synthetic fabric for more than a couple minutes. One summer when he was three or four I made homemade play dough out of salt and cornstarch and thought it would be fun to have a little sculpture lesson. Timothy made a dinosaur, baby Liam made something or other, and I remember Christian with tears running down his face because I was making him touch this disgusting stuff. He had rolled his into a cylinder. Look, I made a snake. Can I wash my hands now?
We could not go to restaurants – the waiter approaching the table would send him into a state of panic. Malls also caused the same concern. As I turned the stroller into a store he would shout – No! I want to go to THAT way. Indicating the door.
When he was nervous or unsure he would run over to me and say – I want to take him; instead of the more traditional “up” meaning that he wanted to be held. This comes from his being a baby of such ample proportions who often opted to be carried instead of pushed. When the pain between my shoulders got bad enough I would thrust him at his father and say- Take him. When he’d had enough he’d return him and say- Take him back. One day near the holidays when Christian was about twenty months old, Howie’s uncle died. When we greeted his aunt after the funeral she asked about the children and begged us to get them before we met her at her home for lunch. So we did. When we drove up I could see Christian become visibly anxious at the sight of the many cars. After about three minutes in the house with the droves of people, Christian came over to me. I want to take him, he said with urgency. I want to go outside. Howie did the honors, standing outside with Christian until people began to leave in twos and threes. Okay, he said finally. Back inside.
Enough people had departed so as to make the crowd bearable. My friend the psychologist Shelley Slampionwas amazed. But he’s brilliant she gasped. He’s doing math. The awareness that people leaving made the whole less? You have to let me test him. Maybe, I said. We’ll see. I already know he’s bright. But what about those idiosyncrasies? She nodded and said, it’s something for sure. Those pediatricians are so frustrating. They need to listen to mothers. Mothers always know. But don’t worry. He has you and you have me and we’ll get through it.
Dr. Shelley thought that his early and recurrent ear infections pointed to something. It’s common as you know in children with ADD and some learning disabilities, she said. Makes me think that there is some congenital link between the two. We should write a paper she said. But I did not want to write a paper. I wanted to help my son.
Christian discovered people when he was about four. Meaning that he discovered they were interesting and for the most part non-threatening and instantly became extremely social and gregarious, and remains that way. He developed a wicked sense of humor. He is a brilliant mimic and has an enormous repertoire of accents. And now, as then, he is extremely entertaining at the dinner table. We are forever in stitches with Christian’s tales and antics. But at age five he could barely hold a pencil, hated to color, could not use a scissors or tie his shoes or do his buttons without help. Puzzles confounded him. I was terrified at the thought of school. Kindergarten was messy but manageable. He went to the school where I taught and his teacher was a friend. We spoke daily and we toddled through without too much trouble. First grade in Indiana was a whole different story. Almost immediately the teacher called me in for a conference. Christian can read, she says. He is polite and very well behaved. He enjoys his friends. But he cannot write. No more than a sentence. He occasionally misspells his own name, writes on the wrong side of the paper. He is disorganized. He loses things. He does not follow directions. He cannot sustain attention for more than a couple minutes.
It was the moment of truth.
Christian has Attention Deficit Disorder, I say. With mild hyperactivity. And possibly something more. He has soft neuro signs and some processing issues. He is dysgraphicwhich makes writing hard. But, I say, I won’t let you test him. He can read and is highly verbal- those are the best indicators of academic success. The other things can be worked on. And as to the attention issues, I’ll talk to the pediatrician and discuss medication if recommended.
Next to me, I can feel Howie stiffen. Medication is a sore subject. But I am a special education teacher and I have seen Ritalin and the like work their wonders for many, many children. I talk to my doctor. I confer again with the teacher. The teacher talks to the doctor and the situation is explained to Christian. His eyes well up. There is something…wrong with me?
No- I insist. It is a variation, a difference. Not a fault. The same thing that makes paying attention hard has made you able to think quickly on your feet, to solve problems quickly, to see the links between things that other people do not notice. And that same thing has given you your sense of humor, I’m sure of it. The rest of us just don’t think that fast.
On our next visit to the pediatrician, the visit where the prescription is written, Christian says he has a question. This medicine will help me pay attention, but will it change my personality? The doctor looks at me, stumped. Well he says, I don’t think so. We’ll have to pay close attention to that. The doctor says later that no seven year old has ever asked him that question before. Welcome to my world, I think to myself.
The medicine works for Christian. With it he is more focused but still needs to use his coping strategies. He sits in the front row and has learned that he is to keep his eyes on the teacher at all times. Once he looks away he is lost. He has learned to advocate for himself. He talks to his teachers without my intervention now. He explains his ADD and asks for what he needs. Sitting dead center of the first row is what works for him and he asks for that seat. He knows that he is an auditory learner. An exceptional auditory learner at that. He forgets almost nothing he hears. He is an avid reader and a gifted writer, once the spell check is on. He has a wide variety of interests and can talk about the Peloponnesian wars and Napoleon’s second campaign with eloquence and passion. He has no regard whatsoever for Republican politics. He must sometimes be cautioned for speaking disrespectfully about conservative pundits and has threatened on several occasions to do mischief to the building that houses Fox news. Next year he will be on the academic team. This year he is too busy preparing for the model U.N. His auditory memory allows his to recollect and replicate melodies he has heard only once. This makes him a talented, though thus far lazy and undedicated, student of the cello. Better than any of this, he is loyal and compassionate and affectionate.
Christian continues to need lots of management at home. I give the same direction several times sometimes before it is followed completely. His bathroom is forever a swamp. His room is not much better. He is very emotional and will cry when frustrated, even at age fourteen. Baths, showers and teeth brushing need daily reminders. Math remains a challenge mostly because there is nothing verbal about it. If it cannot be painted clearly in words, for Christian it holds no interest. It is almost as though it cannot possibly exist if one must use symbols instead of words to describe it. Thankfully though he has yet to ever fail anything, passes the yearly standardized tests and was on the honor roll last year. But it is hard work for him. And this is his first year of high school and I know that large challenges loom ahead. But with those challenges come gifts so unusual and profound that I am grateful. Would I have him any different? Truthfully I don’t know. The challenges sometimes seem so big for such a small boy. But he is a wondrous, unusual boy. And he has taught me that loving is sometimes not just because of, but in spite of. In what I suppose is his imperfection, with all his quirks and idiosyncrasies and foibles, he is a glorious being.
I am concerned about what the future will bring, certainly. I hope he will be safe. I pray that he’ll be happy.
And I want to take him. I want to pack him.
Because I love him.
Raising Cain 