Trusting the 11pm Pee

“You’re too nice to her,” the occupational therapist smiles as she rubs T’s back.

Her eyes meet mine softly.

Beneath her words, I know what she’s saying.

By making things easy, you’re being cruel.

I look at T working a plastic screw into Lightning McQueen’s wheel. And remember last night when I told her to get onto the toilet herself. "Mama can’t pick you up right now,” I stifled a yawn.

“Ok,” she shrugged, waddling over to the toilet after she’d pulled down her pull-ups. She hoisted herself onto the seat with her unusually strong arms and when she was done, smiled and said “that’s a lot of pee!”

My mouth stayed open as she casually slid down and washed her hands.

“I’m proud of you!” I say once my jaw resets. “I’ve never seen you do that before, all by yourself!”

“I told you Mama!” she says proudly pushing her waves off her face with a clumsy palm.

Back in the OT’s office a zing of shame descends. Followed by a quick denial.

“No I’m not!”

And then an even quicker recalibration. She’s right.

Everyday while T is still half asleep on her bed, toothbrush in hand, I pull off her pull-ups for her replacing them with underwear. I dress her and even take her toothbrush back to the sink for her to wash it.

“Well,” the OT says gently. “Let her struggle. It’s part of life. Give her the pleasure of figuring something out for herself. She’s the type that, once she decides she’s going to do it, she’ll find a way.”

I’ve spent so much of T’s 4 years thinking about all the ways she falls short. All the uncertainties I’ll have to protect her against while I’m still on this earth. And yet, despite the pain of those thoughts, have spent so little time with the counter-balanced ones. T is tough. T is resilient. T sees the underlying systems behind how people feel.

After her session, we walk back to the car.

“Mama,” she says. “Here’s my wand. I will get into my seat. You hold this for me."

And I obey.