Our world

Darkness engulfs the day as a breath is taken. 
Bittersweet is your time to rest. 
Often pondering a checklist;
 those I create each day with ease for patience.
As I reach for your backpack,
A familiar aroma of sour milk grasping ahold 
Do backpacks come with instructions?
A village they say, to raise children.  To clean backpacks.
Parenting a child who struggles to hear.  Perhaps two villages.
Or. Patience perhaps, may exceed the strength of a village.
Marriages fail due to financial burdens.
Mother's can not fail their children.  Mother's do fail their children.
13 years. A therapist harbors the deepest tales patients entrust.
Often I contemplate in complete silence from work to mom hat.  
Mom hat to work hat.  
We are in combat is seems at times, society.
But the sour milk circles me back to responsibilites realizing half past 8pm.
Mom Pre-K homework notes are empty.
Clean change of clothes in the sour milked backpack.
10pm Laundry closes.  Risk irritating new neighbors?
Risk being called a mother who doesn't care.
I opt for some dish soap and a dryer sheet and hope for the best.
Perhaps if Valentina notices, I can conjure up some comedic relief.
Not the end of the world.  
A child who relies on a mother to also be father. 
A handbook there should be to grasp in such moments.   
Three and five
That's how many years she has been alive and months in this year.
One on April 12th.
That's how many years have passed since her diagnosis.
2016 and One.
The year and age she was when we packed up and started over.
The time I have in my heart to give of myself.

Pink.  The folder I keep in V's backpack.
News to home informing about the day.
Reinforcing to her the day.  Visually and verbally.
What parent thinks of that?
Speech and hearing is second nature to most.
Not to a child and parent of a child who can not hear.
Nightly homework, to report back on what we did at home.
Children who are deaf struggle to define associations with past/present.
Moreso that a child who is not hearing impaired.
The lunchbox is now staring me in the face.
Empty me.  Clean me.  Fill me.
9pm rolls around and the grumble of my tummy.
The texts from disgruntled family and friends as to my MIA status.
"But we want photos"
"Where have you been"
And then, the lunchbox is full.
The backpack is faux smelling gorgeous with dryer sheets.
Notes are reviewed. Artwork is glorified with Valentina.
Homework is completed. Outfits laid out.
I sit watching my 3.5yr old on her ancient baby monitor.
Her love for the floor will never fail to intrigue me.
There's an innateness related.
And here I sit.
Wondering who to respond to first
torn by my desire to read, write, learn.
Torn by responsibilities to read work emails, catch up on notes.
And here I finish typing and pick up my daughter's Journal.
An entry from her mother will mean more 5 years from now
That will for sure mean more than anything above.
So if you wonder where I am.
I am being mindful in every moment in which I live.
at 520 am watching a monitor of my daughter waking.
at 7am getting us dressed with smiles forced through exhausted eyes.
Getting her onto school to listen and hear and learn in her program.
Getting myself to listen and hear, laern and teach at work.
Monitoring phone calls to tend to Boston Audiology
Pre-K hearing of the deaf program
Coordinating court schedules
Reschedules to accommodate an absent parent
Ensuring a schedule is kept
Hearing aid batteries don't die
Ear wax isn't built up
Reminders of picture day.
Invites to birthday parties.
Grocery shopping. Laundry.
having candid shots of my daughter and I counted on one hand.
Good thing for selfies.
Ensuring my work supports health insurance amongst all.
Good thing my brains are existent.
Good thing I don't live in the world of what ifs/negativitity.
Racing to engage in our nightly routine.
Trying to never let my daughter see beyond my smile.
That's a mom.
That's what I give.
So, if I'm not giving my all to you,
know it is because two arms and one heart are being placed
exactly where they need to be.
In my child's smile.

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