One summery afternoon earlier this year Janie and I met up with her cousins, their mommies and grandma at a restaurant for lunch. We drove extra far because it had to have a play place. When our waffle fries and chicken nuggets were gone we followed the little ones into the small indoor playground. Bailee instantly disappeared into a tunnel. Ammon followed Afton up to the first level where he could look out at the onlookers. And there he stayed. With Janie in my arms I sauntered over to him and we waved up at him from down below.
Suddenly there was a deep voice behind me. "Aww, she doesn't get to play?"
I turned, aware that he was talking to me. I smiled and gently explained that the reason she [Janie] wasn't playing was because she couldn't walk. Normally I take Janie around to play at playgrounds, but this place was cramped and full of kids and I wasn't feeling up to bum-scooting with a two-year-old through smelly tunnels with my shoes off. So we sat next to Grandma and watched.
The man's question echoed over and over in my mind. I had never said those words, but they felt familiar. They seemed to retreat to a place deep in my heart, the place where it hurts when I see Janie missing out, left behind, unable. And suddenly all the wordless yearnings that my heart had pushed heavenward during trying moments could be abridged into these five words and a question mark: she doesn't get to play?
Tonight Janie cried and cried, and I just couldn't figure out what she wanted or needed. And she couldn't tell me. And it was just awful. She can't go where she wants. She can't do what she wants. These are the moments that just break my heart completely.
Janie loves balls. She loves to toss them to the side and watch them roll. And roll they do. And if she can't reach it she gives up. Because it's so much effort for her to get down out of sitting and roll to retrieve it. Her other favorite toys include a top, bubbles, and books: parents required. So when the oven timer calls me away to take care of dinner, Janie cries in protest. Because when I leave, so does her play. And I hate hearing myself repeat, "I know, baby, but Mommy has to make dinner!" from the kitchen as she sits on the floor, miserable. And those five words with the question mark seem to echo through the house.
Some of the trying moments are bittersweet ones. Helping my niece down the stairs, holding her little hand or twirling another niece around during Christmas songs, dancing around the room during Barbie movies. And when we laugh about what Afton says or what Ceci does and wonder what Janie would be like at this age if... It's how I want to cry because Janie is afraid of the new fire truck that her grandma was so excited to get her and how on earth am I going to tell her grandma that?
It's when I wonder if I worked harder with her... would she be able to play?
And so tonight I sit with tears stuck in the corners of my eyes, wondering how on earth I am going to end this post... And I just keep thinking of these words. From a song by Cherie Call that had me and the dishes in tears a few months ago.
They seem to sink to a place deep in my heart, the place where it hurts when I see Janie missing out, left behind, unable.
Just four words.
And no question mark.
