“Thanks anyway,” I said again with a smile before turning and moving toward Rebel. She was on Mel’s lap, signing something quickly. I think she was talking about the donut Will had given her the day before. I usually didn’t let her eat that crap. I was trying to teach her healthy eating habits, since obesity was something we’d always have to fight against. At some point, she was going to be an adult and I wouldn’t be able to make all of her choices for her.
“Hey, Reb,” I said, catching her attention as I reached them. “Mama’s gotta go to the doctor. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“No,” Rebel said, her brow furrowing. “No.”
“Yep,” I answered cheerfully, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
“No!” she yelled, almost pulling me off balance when she suddenly wrapped her arms tightly around my neck.
“Rebel, stop,” I said calmly, reaching up with my good hand to try and pry her arms away from my neck. I was bent in half and every time she jerked against me, she slammed into my bad arm, making my vision go spotty from the pain shooting up from the break. “Rebel, let go,” I said again, almost panicking.
“Rebel,” Mel said sternly. “Let go right now.”
Reb shook her head against my neck and I sighed, pulling her against me instead of away. My arm felt like it was on fire, but I ignored it as she pressed up against me.
“I’ll be back in just a little while,” I said softly, sitting down next to Mel with a feeling of relief. For a moment, I’d thought I was going to hit the floor.
“Mama,” Reb mumbled against my throat, exhaling loudly as her body relaxed against me.
I sniffed as I shifted her onto my lap. She was freaked out. I didn’t blame her.
“You’re going to stay with Auntie Mel,” I said softly, slowly swaying from side to side. “And I bet she’ll turn on Elmo for you.”
“No,” Rebel said again.
“I’m only going to be gone for a little bit,” I tried again. Negotiating wasn’t going to work, I knew that before I even tried. But I really didn’t want to leave her when she was freaking out. If I was feeling scared and overwhelmed, it must have been a thousand times worse for Rebel. She didn’t have the words to explain what she was feeling. She didn’t have the same outlet I did. Everything just built and built inside her until she couldn’t take it anymore.
I glanced at Mel, then closed my eyes. “How about Auntie Mel takes you for some ice cream?” I asked, playing the only trump card I had.
I wanted to stay there comforting her for as long as she needed, but I had to get to the hospital for my appointment. I couldn’t leave my arm the way it was any longer.
“Ice,” Rebel said, drawing the s sound out. She leaned back a little to look at the side of my face, but didn’t let go of my neck. “Mama.”
“Mama can’t go today,” I said softly, rubbing her back in light circles. Too much pressure would set her off again. “But Auntie Mel can.”
One of Rebel’s hands left the hold on my neck, and came forward slowly, her fingers running through my hair. My throat tightened as she twirled a piece around her finger. People often asked me how I did it. Other parents who showed up to therapy because their doctors suspected that their child was on the spectrum. They always looked so afraid, like their lives were going to change with that single diagnosis.
I never understood the question. Not really. How did I do what, exactly? How did I love my child? Easily. How did I deal with the occasional outbursts? Probably like every other parent who had a three year old. She was just Rebel. The baby I’d grown from an egg so small it was invisible to the human eye.
Sometimes she couldn’t meet my eyes, and sometimes she completely refused to talk or sign, and sometimes I had to call her name fourteen times before I caught her attention.
She also had a husky laugh that came from deep in her gut, and was impossible to resist. She liked boy singers, every one of them, from Hunter Hayes to Shawn Mendes. There was something about their voices that she clicked with. I’d cried the first time I’d caught her humming along.
She liked to play with my hair, but didn’t like me to brush hers unless I used a specific brush. She said Mama with reverence, as if she didn’t know any word that she liked better. She wrinkled her nose when she stole a drink of soda, and it usually made her sneeze.
She was everything. She filled me to the brim with every emotion possible, then made them spill over with a giggle.