Fullness of Time

If there are any of you readers who have followed me from when I began this blog, you will know that I began it after my book Tree Barking: A Memoir, was published. At speaking events I was asked whether I would continue writing about my work. At the suggestion of a publisher, I began this blog in 2009, and have continued posting even though I 'retired' from this work in 2015.

When I first began work in early intervention in 2003 it was in the good old days before all the cuts in services had begun. I worked as an Occupational Therapist in the homes of high risk infants. I worked with the infants twice or even three times a week until they turned three, at which time they entered the school system.

In those days of plenty, high risk referred to any infant who had a low birthweight, or was born prematurely, who was at risk because of their environment, or who were diagnosed with any number of chromosomal abnormalities, syndromes, and so on. (If you have questions about this, please let me know.)

The work was both extremely gratifying, challenging, difficult, and frustrating.

It happened that in 2003 I was referred, amongst many other cases, to two micropreemie girls. These girls were born in the same month, in the same year, both in the city of Richmond, both from African American families. They were both born at just six months of age, and both weighed just one pound! Of course they remained in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit until they reached full term. Both of them suffered from all the problems of extreme prematurity, ranging from retinopathy of prematurity, breathing and heart problems, neurological disturbances, feeding difficulties, necrotizing enterecolitis, on and on. Each came with a page of illnesses they had both, rather miraculously, overcome. While they were hospitalized they overcame life threatening events. These girls never knew each other, and still don't. I entered their lives at a fragile time in their homes. Such births and difficulties place enormous stress on families.

It didn't take long before I was hopelessly in love with both of these tiny, fragile little creatures. Because I was there twice a week, in their homes, I became part of their families. I was witness to parental struggles and separations, emotional and financial difficulties, as well as truly awful life shattering events. One of the fathers was killed, and the other was incarcerated for 12 years at the time when his little daughter was getting to know him.

I was witness to the strong bonds of love and loyalty between the family members. I was in awe of both grandmothers who had worked and survived against all the crushing obstacles they had faced. I became like a member of the family, but all the while I knew that when they turned three, both in the same month, I would no longer see them.

Their mothers and grandmothers really worked hard with these fragile infants who quite quickly began to catch up to typically developing children. In fact, I realised that both these li'l things were quite exceptional.

From the time they turned two and a half I began telling them, as I told every child I worked with, whether their parents thought they would understand or not, that when they turned three I would no longer be seeing them. I was obviously a big part of the childrens' lives, devoting a full hour twice a week to be with them. They enjoyed my undivided attention,
and of course were most delighted to see me with my large black canvas bag of 'tricks,' (the toys and books I brought to them. They received me with delight and cried when I left, although I assured them I would be back soon. I never wanted to just stop seeing a child and never return. I told them that I would not be coming because they were doing very nicely, and were going on to new things. I told them I would always carry them in my heart.

This was, indeed the case. Thanks to social media I have remained in touch with their mothers over the years. And I mean years. These young ladies are 18 years of age and have both graduated. I was invited to their graduation ceremonies and festivities.

Over the past two weekends I have been out with both of these 'girls.' I was beyond thrilled to reconnect with them and their families and was received with the warmest of embraces from all members of the family. They have both done so incredibly well, and have blossomed into really delightful, insightful, thoughtful, intelligent beings.

It is so gratifying to me that we continue to share a warm and loving bond, and I am now watching them spread their wings and fly.

The House of Estrogen

I am copying and pasting a part of my as yet unfinished book. It is about one of the girls I wrote about in my next blog. "Fullness of Time."

For obvious reasons, all names have been changed.

Coral and I sat in their kitchen. She finished her bowl of oatmeal and climbed down from the high chair. Clad only in her diaper she stood in an attitude of defiance. Her tiny little legs were placed wide apart, and her little fists were balled up at her sides. Her hair stood up around her pretty face in wild curls. She looked at me, and then spoke for the very first time. Her very first words to me were “Nesta, mommy hit me.”

Mom was in the bedroom. I called out to her “Did you hit Coral?”

“I sure did,” mom answered in her direct manner.

“Coral kicked her little cousin, the one you met last week, who just started to crawl. I hit her because she kicked her cousin. Soon as I hit my baby I realized what I did was wrong. I need to explain things to her and not whup her. She understands everything. She was insulted and shocked I hit her. Now she can’t forget it. She trusts you. She thinks you will help her if she tells you what I did.”

This was certainly not a case of child abuse. A mother was rearing her child according to her family’s norms. This is yet another of the instances that make working in peoples’ homes difficult.

We are mandated reporters of violence or abuse, but I have to be sensible and flexible. Every culture has its own practices and norms, and this even differs from family to family within a specific culture. I do not want to impose my ideas of what is wrong or right on a family. Certain actions are a given, and transcend every culture, like severe physical and emotional abuse, neglect, medical neglect, and we have to follow strict rules to ensure that families comply with these. Besides these obvious transgressions, how to handle situations is left up to a practitioner’s discretion.

This family was not an abusive family. Love and caring pulsated in and around the home.

I remembered my first visit. I had received a referral to a then 6-month old girl, Coral, who was born extremely prematurely, (at just 25 weeks), weighing just under one pound. The referral stated that she lived with her mother and grandmother in the grandmother's house. It further stated that although mother gave birth in the hospital, she was incarcerated at the time of her birth. Grandmother took care of Coral until mom was released.

On my first visit to the suburban home it vibrated with feminine energy. Mother, grandmother, and an aunt were all present. The aunt, close in age to mom, sat with her back toward us as she worked on a computer in the living room. However, at every one of my questions she turned around to add her observations. All three women were obviously very involved in Coral’s care.

While I went over the filling in of forms, names, addresses, social security numbers, medical insurance information, etc, I sat on the sofa, and looked around me. The kitchen stood just off the living room. The passageway to the bedrooms led off from the living room. I noticed that a large number of interesting-looking clocks decorated the walls of the living room, the kitchen, and the passage. Some were made of wood, some of metal. Decorations were either painted or sculpted on the faces. All the clocks worked. I made a mental note to ask about them when I got to know the family better.

Mom let me hold Coral, a tiny, very pretty little girl even though she had hardly any hair, and had a severe case of cradle cap. She gazed at me with lively curiosity in her large brown eyes. Her little mouth formed a perfect cupid’s bow. Mom answered my questions in a rather curt and abrupt manner, sort of blurting out answers. When gran or the aunt interjected, they were far more friendly, especially grandmom.

I told them I would see Coral twice a week. Mom requested that I come at 8 a.m. on Fridays, and so began my two year saga in The House of Estrogen.

Winter, spring, summer, and fall I arrived at the home at 8.00 a.m. As there was no front door bell I had to knock, bang rather, very loudly on the wooden door. There was never any sound of life. Every Friday, winter, spring, summer, and fall I knocked, louder and louder, and called Mom's name. Winter, spring, summer, and fall the man who lived across the street watched this procedure. Soon he recognized my car and when I opened the door he called out "they’re all at home." My next step, after the futile knocking, was to take my cell phone out of my handbag and call. I informed whomever brusquely picked up the phone, that I was outside. After a while I heard steps, then mom flung open the door. She stuck her head out, squinting in the morning light. Her hair stood up in kind of spikes, and she glared at me as if I had absolutely no right to be standing there. Every Friday this same procedure, and always I was reminded of Brenda, in the film, Bagdad Cafe. Brenda was the angry black woman whose hair stood on end, and she glared at Jasmin, the zaftig German woman, with venomous hatred, seeing her transform into a mean colonial creature come to do her harm.

Mom opened the door, turned around, and walked back to her bedroom shouting, "Coral, git up, Nesta's here." Sometimes I followed her into the bedroom she shared with Coral, other times I would remain in the living room, perched on a sofa, looking at the clocks.

In the bedroom where Coral and mom shared a bed, Mom pulled the covers back and little Coral would sit up, blinking in a startled fashion, then she looked around the room, saw me and smiled. At first she would roll in my direction until she began to crawl. Much later she began to toddle, until finally she could run into my arms. She jumped up, little arms outstretched, and hugged me tight. When I remained in the living room Coral would toddle in, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, and jump into my arms. Coral was a delight, bright and vivacious, and we shared a wonderful relationship.
Mom warmed up over time, especially when she saw I really cared for Coral. I appreciated mom and all the females present because they were direct and honest, and their love and caring for each other was palpable.

During one of my visits I asked mom about the clocks.
She told me her dad made them. I had never met her father. The only men I saw were a boyfriend of the aunts and Coral’s dad, who sometimes came to pick her up. I hadn’t exchanged more than a quick nod with either of them. I asked mom where her dad was. In her direct manner she answered, San Quentin. When I asked why she replied in her usual gruff manner, “He’s in for life”.

The family visited him on a regular basis, and once Coral would accompany them on visits.

I gathered that Gran, a bus driver, had raised her daughters mostly as a single parent. She had not had an easy time of it, working, raising her children, as well as those of her in-and-out-of addiction’s sister’s children, all nieces.

The house brimmed with feminine energy. Like a sparkling cloud it flowed through the home, manifesting in scented soaps and perfumes, stylish dresses, dangly earrings, giggling chatter. Sometimes when I visited I observed the hair grooming ritual. On the floor the youngest little girl would wriggle in an older sister or cousin’s lap. The younger girls sat behind them, squished onto the sofa. Aunts, mom and grandma sat on chairs behind the sofa. Deft fingers combed and brushed out tangles on the heads in front of them, dipping into jars of Vaseline, laughing, joking, rubbing their fingers together, smoothing and combing the hair before parting it into sections, and braiding or twisting the strands. Their dancing fingers dipped into an enormous plastic container full of clips, ribbons and barrettes. They matched colors to that day’s clothing. A synchronized orchestration of movement and color, enveloped in a pink and sparkling cotton-like mist.

“Oatmilk,” was Coral’s idea of the best food in the world. ‘Oatmilk” was one of her first words. When she jumped on my lap in the living room I would massage the night stiffness out of her little limbs. Then we would get on to the floor and I would place her on a large bouncy exercise ball, or we would play with push pull toys, like her little pram with her babies inside. As soon as she got hungry she ran to her mom who had got back into bed, shake her, and say “Mommie, git up, make me oatmilk.’

When I asked her what they had for Thanksgiving, she smiled excitedly, stretched out her little arms heavenward and said “oatmilk.” Mom, who was listening to our conversation gruffly assured me they did have other food, besides oatmeal.

Men faded in and out. Aunt had a boyfriend who lived with them. He left the home early in the morning. Aunt had worked as an office manager but with the worsening of the economy she lost her job and spent her days job searching for work online.
She became pregnant and gave birth to a lively full term daughter, Pearl. The daughters and cousins, sisters and aunts only gave birth to girls, and named them after gems: Coral, Pearl, Crystal, Ruby, Sparkle.

I met Coral’s dad a few times. He came by to see Coral and to take her to his place.
When Coral began to talk she related the names of her many relatives, and explained their relationship to her. She was like a tiny little family tree.

Once when I returned after a three week vacation mom came to the door, looking very thin, and I remarked on this. Gran was working on the computer, her back to me. When Mom went to get Coral from the bedroom Gran, her eyes never leaving the screen, said, “Yeah, she lost weight. She had trouble with Coral’s daddy. He’s in jail now, for twelve years.

So Coral’s model of the men closest to her, daddy and grandpa, is that they are behind bars when she visits them.

When Coral reached twelve months, (chronologically 15 months, but adjusted to 12 because of her prematurity. We work according to Stanford protocol which is that premature infants are adjusted for their gestational and chronological age until they are two years old), her mom began to work and study, so I saw Coral in a daycare.

The daycare providers are of Filipino descent, and all the children in their care are Asian, with the exception of Coral. One day Coral and I sat on their living room floor, coloring in. Rather, she scribbled horizontal and vertical lines and began to copy circles. I felt her scrutinizing me. Suddenly she said "Nesta, your eyes are so big." I had never been told this. I looked at her inquisitively and she placed her fingers at the outside corner of her eyes, and pulled them up at an angle!

Another day she stood behind me, playing with my curls, lifting each one up at a time. "Who braids your hair for you, Nesta?" she asked.

One afternoon when the kids lay down for nap time I sat beside her on her cot and she stroked my arm. Suddenly she said:
"Nesta, your skin is all white under your arm and kind of brown on top, do you bathe?"

Coral and I chatted about her family, the books I read to her, and her favorite cartoon characters. She began to speak very well. Because she was such a pretty dainty little thing, it always amused me when a loud drawn out nasal “huhhhhh” came out of her cupid’s bow mouth whenever I said something she didn’t understand.

Sometimes before I left she would hop into my lap and cry, “I miss my daddy.” Her mom gave her a gift of a locket with her dad’s picture in it. Then mom told her he’s in jail. Mom told me Coral was big enough to understand that.
A few months before Coral’s third birthday, I explained that I would no longer be coming to see her. I always explain this to my wee ones, even if they don’t seem to understand. I do not like to just leave abruptly.

Towards the end of every visit I took out my pen and paperwork, and wrote a brief summary of what we had done during the hour. When she saw me remove my pen from the clipboard Coral knew I was getting ready to leave soon and she’d beg, “Don’t go, we have to finish our coloring, put me to sleep, please don’t go.” Sometimes she worked herself up so that she lay on the floor drumming her heels and crying. The daycare worker would have to come and get her. It got so that I began to think I shouldn’t go at all, to prevent these wrenching farewells.

So when I began telling her I would no longer be coming to see her I explained that this is a good thing. “You will be three years old. This is a big event in your life.”

Ever since she began to be aware, she looked forward to her birthdays. Her mother gave her lovely parties at special venues with all the cousins in attendance. A soon as one birthday ended she began to counting the days to the next one. First one, then two, and now very soon, the big three. I explained that I won’t be coming because she is doing so very well. At first she didn’t seem to pay any attention to what I said, simply talking about something else. However, by this time I knew that nothing went by Coral, she saw and heard and observed everything around her, so her reaction was somewhat baffling to me. Then one day mom told me that Coral told her that I won’t be coming. “Nesta must always come,” she said to mom.

On my last visit I gave her a little gift and made a card for her, which I hoped she would read one day. I told her that she was a special and gifted child. I love her very much, and I promise I will keep in touch.


Cut to one evening, three years later. Coral had requested to visit me and her mom brought her over. Per Coral’s request she and I went to Barnes and Noble. She picked out Cinderella and we sat at a table in the childrens‘ section. The book was open and Coral sat next to me looking intently at the pictures, I thought. I read “Once upon a time there was ………” and Coral stopped me. She pointed to the O in ‘Once’ and said “Nesta, why did you say W? There is an O there, not a W?
Later that evening, in accordance with her next request we went for pizza and ice cream. I do not have a child seat in my car, so I told her I would strap her in the back seat. She informed me she would get in next to me and if we saw the police she would duck!

When we got to the Pizza parlor Coral knew way better than I did how to order, and what to order, and how to sprinkle on the cheese and get her drink! She wanted to know my favorite ice cream flavor. "Chocolate and vanilla" I replied. “Ooh,” she said. "My favorites too. Nesta, we have so much in common.”

I have remained in contact with her family ever since. Coral is doing very very well.

Dad has called Coral once a week all the time he has been in jail. Very soon he will be released.