We're at Open House for the girls. Mad sits in front of the dollhouse in her new classroom, playing quietly by herself. Another girl comes and sits next to her. "Hi," the girl says cheerfully. "Can I play, too?" Mad freezes, I mean literally stops moving, hands going still in the motion of putting the baby into its crib. Her hand hangs there, awkwardly. Another little girl comes and sits on the other side of Madeleine. Mad immediately gets up without saying a word and tries to walk away. I stop her.
The second little girl gets up from the chair and waves at Mad. "Hi Madeleine," she says. "Remember me? I'm Lily."
Mad frowns and won't even look at the little girl.
I crouch down. "Mad, do you remember Lily?" I ask her quietly. Madeleine won't respond even to me now. She's very still, staring off into the distance. It's like she's not even there.
I try again. "Mad, Lily is saying hi to you. Can you say hi back?"
Mad still won't speak. She does move, finally, but it's to try and climb up my body so that I will hold her. I don't pick her up. Lily is still waiting for Mad to say something.
I don't think it's a good idea to jump in on Mad's behalf, but I don't really know what to do. So I turn to the little girl and give her a smile. "Mad's feeling a little shy," I tell the girl. "Why?" she asks, and I shrug. "I guess she has a hard time finding words sometimes," I say.
Mad is burying her face into my leg now, no doubt listening intently. I wonder if I'm teaching her things about herself that I shouldn't, planting ideas that weren't there before. Offering her excuses. Because the truth is that I don't really know if she has trouble finding words. I always get the impression that she just doesn't know what to say. But maybe she's willfully choosing not to speak. Or maybe she's like me when I was a kid. I wouldn't open my mouth even when directly called upon to do so, for the longest time -- and I wasn't necessarily choosing not to, I just felt like I physically couldn't do it. I had some strange fear response to the idea of opening my mouth and talking to someone. So for a long time, I just didn't. Or maybe she's not like me at all. I just have no idea.
The little girl has gone back to the dollhouse and plays with the other little girl. They talk happily, interacting beautifully. I turn to Mad, who is still completely silent, and catch a glimpse of another parent across the room, who gives me a smile. "She'll talk when she's ready to," she says, and I can't tell if it's for my benefit or for Lily's benefit. I feel awkward, then, like any flaws I have in parenting are on display, that everyone has noticed them. I lead Mad from the room.
::
Mad's new teacher seems wonderful, and she is trying hard to engage Madeleine. But Mad won't talk. Not a peep. While Wayland engages Mad in a separate room, I take her teacher aside and give her a debriefing of Mad's issues. I doubt myself even as I'm telling her. I shouldn't have told her that we looked at an Asperger's diagnosis, I think to myself. I don't want to put her in a category unnecessarily. I don't want her to get the wrong idea. Because Mad will talk, eventually. It will just take a long time. It took her more than a year to open up in her two years of pre-K classes. She was just barely learning to interact when it was time to move her to Kindergarten. I tell the teacher about her other issues: with change, with routine, her little rituals. I feel a little crushed, explaining these things, while the other kids are chattering happily around the room, checking things out, seemingly thrilled.
::
Mad and V sit at a table in the 4-year-old classroom, where Violet will be starting on Monday. They are coloring, quietly. Violet has a crayon clenched in her left fist and she's coloring in the letter A very tidily. Across from my girls, two other girls, Lily and Olivia, are making big plans while they color. "We can have a sleepover," says Olivia. "I will bring my sleeping bag and my owl." Lily asks, "Is it a real owl?" And Olivia says yes. "Wow," says Lily. "You have a pet owl?" And Olivia says no. Lily laughs. They continue chatting, planning out their big sleepover they've hatched all on their own, without the help of their parents. The parents are hanging back, smiling at the girls indulgently, bursting with pride.
It's such a stark contrast to my two girls, sitting side by side, so silent, barely glancing up at the two best friends in front of them. I feel wistful.
::
We're in the car on the way home from Open House, and I don't know what to say to Mad about any of this, or if I shouldn't say anything at all. I settle on this:
"Mad, do you ever feel lonely when you're feeling shy? Like, do you feel sad when you don't talk to the kids who want to talk to you?"
"No. Can you turn the music on?"
"In a second," I tell her. "I'm still trying to talk to you. So....you're just happier by yourself?"
"Umm...I guess so," she says.
"Well, I just want you to be happy, so that's good," I tell her. "But if you ever start to feel sad because you can't talk to the other kids, or if you are having a hard time making a friend and you really want one, please tell me. Because I want to help. Okay?"
"Mom, can you turn the music on now?" She asks.
I feel the weight of a thousand worries pressing on my chest, hear all the unsaid things hanging in the air, and I realize that there's not really anything I can do with them. They're just there for now, for awhile maybe. Likely. So I turn the music on and hope we'll be able to figure it out as we go.
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