What a wheeze.
I was struck with how many of us are asthmatic and/or have asthmatic children. I know it’s the new urban plague, but it has always felt like my personal disease. It was certainly less common was I was young but even so, it seemed to form part of my identity, much the way dancing did or reading. I read somewhere that this is one reason why it’s important to tell a child with asthma that he or she “has asthma” rather than “is asthmatic” or “is an asthmatic” because having something is less identity-forming than being something. This makes sense to me, and I do try. To label people is to limit them, I know this both in my head and my heart. But it is human nature to try and get a handle on the huge universe that is a person with a label or two and it is terribly hard to resist thinking of Helena as the cooperative one, and Daniel as the sensitive one. Or Helena as the whiny one and Daniel as the confrontational one. But even as I write this, I know it is not true and that they both rotate through all kinds of places and roles and behaviors.
This summer with Daniel has been terribly hard, and I have definitely been thinking about him as “the trying one.” Last night, he crept into bed while I was alseep and I put my arm around him for a moment, thinking he was Helena and felt such a strong flow of love and protection for my sick child. Then I woke up enough to realize it was Daniel and felt terrible that I had felt this huge rush for the other child, the one I don’t fight with constantly, the one I don’t struggle to keep my temper with constantly, the one I don’t cry about every evening when another day has been survived rather than enjoyed and I am fresh out of ideas about how to help him negotiate the constantly exploding minefield of his life.
But oh, children on albuterol. Yegads. Helena is six kinds of trouble, bouncing off the walls and giggling and crying and smacking her brother and trying to get back into my womb all at once. And let me tell you, it is uncomfortable to have an almost-four-year-old trying to find her way back into your uterus.
I am really enjoying your blog. You speak eloquently. I especially enjoyed a piece I found in your archives about feminism, how it’s gotten twisted up and about what it could (and should) become. That entry and those thoughts are old news to you, but I rarely hear any women asking the same questions that I do and thinking similar thoughts about feminism. That’s always a pleasure.
Todays entry had a similar effect…I’m not ever happy to hear that someone else is having similar challenges raising their son as I am, but it’s reassuring to know that I’m not alone in it. You write eloquently.
warm regards,
Angelina
dustpanalley.blogspot.com
Mine have finally all but outgrown their lung problems (horrible air quality here) but I remember the albuterol struggles well.
I agree, it is very hard at times not to label our children. Mine is the laid back, quiet one. Is she quiet all the time? No. Yet she is labeled that not only by us but by others. I wonder often how that will shape her personality.
Great thought provoking post!
I’ve felt that way too with my kids — although he’s not even one, I know Oliver’s going to be the more challenging of the two and, I admit, there are times when I get Dave to do things with Oliver so I can get off lighter with Julia.
In the academic Disability Studies world, the issue you talk about of illness/disab as identity is talked about constantly. Many folks, recognizing how much a chronic illness shapes who we are, embrace the idea. I think for those of us with on-and-off kinds of chronic illness, it is more problematic–especially for children. Getting defined by something you neither choose nor experience for all your moments is hard.
And as always, thinking about what feels right is probably more important than in final decisions we make…. You set such a good role model of that.
it is a hard call…
i find it difficult
because the child i provide
childcare and IBI therapy for
is autistic and i know that in
our early childhood and education
course, we were taught not to say
an autistic child, but rather,
like you said the child first,
the condition later.
the thing i am finding difficult
is #1 this is not my child.
#2 do i need to ever say
that he has autism?
#3 but then, do i not say anything
and let people assume that he
is just out of control and undisciplined?
#4 is any of it really my call?
and #5 why have i just taken up
so much space on your
comments with my rants.
heh.
sorry,
got carried away
heehee
At three my son was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. Now at 13 he hates the disease. It’s so bad that he even hates to hear commercials on tv about diabetes. We were never told not to say that he is a diabetic. As a matter of fact we were told to say it. Now I wish someone had had the insight to tell us not to label him. It breaks my heart to see him dislike something about himself.
gah. i have one of those inhalers in my purse–leftover from the week of bronchitis. bless her heart. bless yours. that stuff made me higher than one of Bush’s cabinet members. phew.
and, oh. we understand the rush you felt for the less ‘trying’ kid. The important thing is to know that Daniel’s little self is imploding with questions and answers and discoveries and MY GOD self-advocation. I imagine I would want to lock him in a closet. I also imagine that he is probably resembling one of you parents at that age, as well.
as a last resort, you could totally mince up a vicodin and put it in their juices. just for a little nappy-pooh. you know.
mom says that rum also works.
for the baby.
and for her.