Plymouth Fireworks Snippets

Plymouth fireworks are held within a day or so of the Fourth of July, and about 10,000 people attend. To get a decent viewing spot, it’s advantageous to arrive hours before they begin. Since we’re on Siljander time, we had to park about a mile away, and I had to carry our bag, with full water bottles.

As we settled in on a hill, after deliberating which spot was best, we checked our phones, read on Kindle, and texted and Snapchatted family.

Imani texted me: “I’m jealous of that girl eating cake.”

I texted her back: “Her cake fell in the grass.”

She showed me how much shorter her right leg is than her left. I pointed out her different scars and said, “Dun, dun, dun, you could make a cool tattoo with them.” Laughing, she said, “I could have a tree on this leg and birds on the other,” pointing to smaller scars on her left leg.

As we listened to the Minnesota Orchestra, we waited for fireworks and the uncertain arrival of family. My sister texted me that she was just getting out of the shower, and I responded, “I think you’re going to miss this one, punk.” Nonetheless, I told everyone where we were sitting.

Imani: “We need a bat signal that we can shine up that says ‘Siljander.'”

We were surrounded by masses of people: some having picnics and drinking wine, a few with dogs, lots of kids and strollers, and people clearly more organized than us with amenities they had brought with them.

When fireworks started, a lot of us stretched out on the grass to watch. Young guys hollered – and made their presence known. As patriotic music played, the crowd cooed and cheered. The finale was worth everything with spectacularly bright pops of fireworks that were like paparazzi flash bulbs at the Oscars.

I thought about how I missed moments like these with my daughter because I was at work in the past. But now we got to enjoy fireworks together and chill together.

I thought about veterans and people who have been around gun violence.

As we walked the long way back to our car, we saw people we had seen on the way there: a thin man with wild white hair and an Indian family with a mother, father, and two adolescent boys. I shone the flashlight on my phone so she could see where she was going. We both listened in as a group of boys told riddles:

What do you call a man with no arms and legs on your wall? Art.

What do you call a man with not arms and legs in the pool? Bob.

There are 28 cows and 28 (20 ate) chicken. How many are left? 28.

How do you get down off an elephant? You can’t; you get down off a duck.

On the way home, Imani sang the song “Amore” to me. Then she unplugged my phone from the car charger and plugged hers in. Dean Martin sang “Amore” to us and she said, “Sing it, Dean-O!” After singing along, and playing Andy Williams and Frank Sinatra, she remarked, “Imagine if these men had never gone to the studio. The world would be less bright – ahhhhh!!” Somehow, the conversation turned to pancakes. Imani said, “I need pancakes in my life.” I told her that we have a mix, but it’s easy to make pancakes from scratch, and they’re better. Maybe we will remember that we want pancakes this weekend when we have time to get the ingredients and make them.

 

 

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Nurse Kathy & Receptionist Mary

While Baby Imani was in the hospital, we got to know Nurse Kathy – a woman with a heart-shaped face and heart-shaped life. Close to retirement, she was still as joyous as someone just beginning a career of her dreams. Her smile shone from her eyes as she worked. When I met her for the first time, she hugged me, pulled back to smile directly at me, and then embraced me again. It made me feel warm all over, and safe – like everything would be OK because she was there. Along with her beautiful smile, she laughed from the inside, with her head back, and sang or hummed as though she didn’t have a care in the world. I needed her validation, after having been abandoned during my pregnancy, and before that, losing everything when I left home and church. It was a wonderful surprise at a time when I had almost nobody.

“Hi, Bridget! Look at your little angel, I put a bow in her hair,” Kathy said. Drawing closer to the isolette, I peered in at my tiny baby attached to tubes and sensors under three banks of lights. Her miniature face was covered with an eye guard attached to pieces of velcro stuck to the sides of her head. And on the top of her fragile head, still recovering from birth trauma, adorned by a sparse coat of jet black hair, was a bright, pink bow, set in Vasoline.

In that moment, we were honored as a family. Kathy gave us a gift, symbolized by a plastic bow with a dab of Vasoline. My daughter was treated like she was special, and worth loving by not only me, but people who would meet her. And I as her mother was regarded with respect, as I was presented with my decorated child. Kathy moved us beyond what we were thought of by judgmental society to a position of grace. Here in this NICU on the University of Minnesota campus, I was more than a teen mom, and Imani was more than my assumed mistake. We were important.

When I visited Imani every day, Kathy was often there. Sometimes she would be changing Imani’s diaper, or cleaning her up, singing as she did. Like every visit, I parked in the hospital lot, took the elevator up to the 4th floor, and was buzzed in to the NICU through the double doors. Mary was at the desk during the day, and we chatted while I signed in. She would one day mail me the records of my sign-ins as a keepsake. All day, she greeted parents, family members, and professionals, as though each one mattered to her especially. Her imprint on me is lasting because she made me feel welcome. There were not many places in the world where I felt welcome in my situation. But Mary. Mary made me feel welcome. With people like Kathy and Mary, we would make it.

I Will Miss Those Days

I remember the days when I had Imani sleep on my chest so she wouldn’t forget to breathe, which happens with babies born very premature (14 weeks early). I remember the days when I felt my heart strings tugged when I watched her ride off on the school bus, and the joy I felt seeing her emerge from the bus when she arrived back home. And now are the days when she is galavanting around her college campus, becoming grown, finding herself, and making her way in the world. And later will be the days that I will miss those days.

Returning to Work After Baby with Multiple Worlds on My Shoulders

There was a pause after a stream of kids got off the school bus in south Minneapolis, and then I saw Cole, who was 11 years old, moving intentionally down the bus steps, smiling and staring blankly, with his shock of blonde hair blowing in the crisp fall breeze. His empty-looking backpack was partway open, but there was nothing at risk of falling out. Without making eye contact, he made a bee-line for the front door, which was open, and barged into the kitchen. On the counter, he found string cheese and peanut butter crackers that I had made for him moments before. As if he hadn’t eaten all day, he scarfed them down and then asked, “Milk?” “Oh, sorry, Cole, I will get you a glass of milk.” “Milk!” he said, raising his voice. “One minute, Cole,” I reassured him, opening the refrigerator door and pulling out the carton of milk – then grabbed a glass from the clean dishwasher, even though it wasn’t dry. Before I finished pouring the glass of milk, he plunked himself in front of the television on his favorite chair, and found “The Simpsons.” Stomping his feet, he laughed and pointed, “Homer is silly!” We shared a chuckle. Then I asked, “Do you want your milk now?” “Yes!” he replied, taking the glass and drinking it down.

When the episode was done, I asked him if he wanted to do some stretching exercises and he agreed, picking up a toy truck he liked to play with. First we took off his leg braces, and he sat on the floor. Starting with his calf muscles, I held his left knee and pushed his foot toward him, then did his right side. In ten minutes, I stretched his calves, hamstrings, quadriceps, and hip flexors, to keep him limber because cerebral palsy causes muscle spasticity.

Cole was also autistic and intellectually disabled. He needed constant supervision and support because he was vulnerable and unsafe if left alone. Sometimes he got very anxious and overwhelmed, so he would hit and throw things. Once already, he had hit me in my pregnant belly when he wasn’t able to regulate his emotions. He didn’t want to feel like that, he couldn’t help it. I understood because I had anxiety and depression. We went to his local community center to play sports with other kids his age. They included him and treated him like a regular person. We enjoyed doing things together after school, and we had our routine.

After stretching, Cole liked to relax with video games. That was when I normally went to the bathroom to pump my breast milk for Imani, and put it into small plastic, labeled cups. It took me about ten minutes if I turned the machine on high, with both sides attached to suction cups that attached to milk bottles. Cole’s sister, Ricky, sat with him while I was gone, but I still hurried.

My breasts were tender as I turned off the suction and pulled the cups off. Every two hours, around the clock, pumping had to be done to produce enough milk and not dry up. This included getting up every two hours in the night to pump, so of course, I never slept. It took time to set up and finish, besides the actual pumping, and then it took a while to fall back to sleep – as exhausted as I was. Breast milk is recommended for babies, especially premature babies who are underweight and trying to catch up from the time they are born. Every day, I slept for about an hour at a time, worked all day, and was still recovering from child birth without a maternity leave. It was mere days until I returned to work, still stapled from a cesarean section, and trying not to tear the incision open as I did personal care assistant work for several people: Cole, Mark (a quadriplegic), Matilda (an elderly woman), and an elderly pair of sisters, Marie and Martha. This was where the benefit of youth made a difference, because for three months until my daughter came home, I slept a few hours a night – and then I continued to sleep a few hours a night. Looking back, I don’t know how I was able to function doing all that on my own as a 19-year old single mom with virtually no support system.  I worked incredibly hard.

“Ricky, you can go in a minute, I’m just about done,” I yelled down the stairs, peeking out of the dirty bathroom that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Ricky didn’t say anything. She was quiet and seemed depressed, rarely smiling. It was hard to know what she was thinking, and she didn’t share. On my way back down the stairs, I was met by Cole’s mother, Beate, who practically cornered me. “Marriage is hard enough without a disabled child,” she hissed. Stunned, I had no time to react, just looked at her with big eyes that conveyed no understanding of what she meant. My heart started to race as I slowly distanced myself from her, returning to Cole, who was shrieking in the living room.