On Doing Enough

My two and a half year old said “Trolls” the other day.

Followed by cheers and high fives and a phone call to my husband at work. I’m sure this doesn’t seem that exciting, but to us, it’s a big deal. 

I was having a day. One of those days when you desperately need to clock out, but no one is available to take over your shift. I was counting down the minutes until quiet time and strongly encouraging my kids to inhale their vegan mac and cheese so we could all take a break. I didn’t have it in me to fight the nap battle, so I grabbed an iPad and snuggled Avery into her bed. I tapped on the iTunes movie library and paused, trying to decide which movie she’d like to watch for the 1000th time. But before I could choose, she smiled and said, “Trolls.” 

*****

Our middle child is smart and strong and loud. She’s independent, but would also crawl back into my womb if I let her. She’s hilarious without trying to be. She has the world’s cutest dimple and flashes it shamelessly to get out of trouble. She never, and I mean never, stops moving. And she thinks sleep is for wimps. In fact, she climbed out of her crib for the first time at eighteen months and hasn’t slept a full night since.

The only thing she can’t do is talk. 

Over the past year, I’ve tried everything I could think of to get her to talk; put her in therapy, took a speech therapy class for parents, threw away noisy toys, purchased imaginative play toys, took away her beloved pacifier, gave back her beloved pacifier.

I’ve yelled. I’ve cried. I’ve prayed. 

But still, she limits her communication to staccato screams and random phrases from movies. She spends her days silently destroying the house—she pulled a large canvas off the wall during lunch the other day—with an “oops” uttered on occasion. 

We‘ve had people question our parenting. We’ve gotten disapproving looks and heard judgmental sighs. We’ve been told that she has “red flags for autism.” We’ve compared her to other children her age. We’ve avoided taking her places. 

I know how to look like a confident mother. I know how to hold my tears until I’m tucked safely inside my minivan. I know how to defend my child and advocate for her. But I don’t know how to teach her this. I don’t know how to coax the words out of her. I don’t know how to make her listen. And that’s what keeps me up at night. That’s what pushes me to search “ADHD in toddlers” through tears at 2 am. 

*****

Mothering in the age of Pinterest, with its infinite sensory bin and busy box tutorials, is a blessing and a curse. It’s nice to be able to quickly find an activity that can keep my kids busy for an hour using (alleged) household items. But when I realize that I only have two of the ten items needed to create the learning experience of my child’s dreams,—I’m not the type of mom who keeps tempura paint and rainbow-colored rice in her craft closet. I’m not even the type of mom who has a craft closet.—I start feeling like I’m failing at everything. 

I’m not teaching them enough. I’m not providing enough mental stimulation. Are they getting enough exercise? Does Harper remember all of her numbers? Does Avery know any numbers? I let them have too much screen time. Why can’t they sit still long enough for me to read a book? Should Harper be reading on her own by now? Does Avery know any letters? I don’t feed them enough brain-boosting foods. What even are brain-boosting foods? Salmon? When was the last time they had a green vegetable? I give them too much apple juice. They probably have cavities. I am officially the worst. The Pinterest moms are killing this motherhood thing and I’m just keeping everyone alive and somewhat clean. 

I  know, in a part of my brain behind this shame spiral, that none of this is true. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they have a cavity or two. And the fact that Avery can (sort of) quote lines from Boss Baby, but refuses to say “out please” when she wants to get up from the dinner table probably means she gets a touch too much screen time. But they know the important things. They know who God is and who their family members are. They say hi and give hugs to anyone who walks through our front door. They dance to any music they hear and pose for any camera they see. Even little Ella yells “Cheeee” when she sees an iPhone pointed in her direction. They greet each other in the morning with hugs and Z Bars and sing a special Good Morning song I made up when the baby wakes up. And I can’t take credit for all of that, but I think I can take credit for some. 

*****

A few weeks ago, I started encouraging Avery to pray out loud before bed. I used to let Harper handle the prayers for the under-five crowd, but one night I grabbed Avery’s little hand and led her through her own prayer. 

Dear God,

Thank you for this day. 

Thank you for our family.

God bless Mommy and Daddy, Harper, Ella, and me. 

Please help me to speak. 

Please help me to sleep.

In Jesus’ Name...

And she said, Amen.

When had she learned that word? I never taught it to her. I never asked her if she could say it. I never said it loudly, over and over, hoping she would repeat it. But I did pray in front of her, and over her, every night since before she was born.

And maybe that was enough. 

(year old) photo by Alyssa Anne Photography