closet.
I hate my closet.
Imagine a galley kitchen. But instead of counters impeding on your personal space, it’s the shoulders of Brad’s suit jackets and my blousy dresses.
It’s a 10-foot straight walkway where even the slimmest of people can’t avoid bumping into plastic dry-cleaning bags suffocating their fabric resident.
Sharing a closest with your husband should be forbidden. It’s a sin, really. Breaking the law of my sanity and stereotypical femininity. I want to adorn this galley kitchen-closet with floral wallpaper, a chandelier and a mood-boosting sign like ‘Hey there, Beautiful’ next to a gold framed mirror all while lavender incense burns ever so subtly filling the air with it’s calming presence.
I shouldn’t be sharing this tiny space with Brad’s armpit stained band t-shirts from college and his dad uniform of fishing shirts.
It’s blasphemy I tell you.
Elliott is eight years old today, October 21. She is developmentally much younger; three maybe four years old in some respects. Her physical appearance presents Elliott at about five or six which is also an accurate age gauge at times.
She likes to be carried. Which can be adorable and sweet, and also quite inconvenient. Such as when she demands to be carried to or from school and protests walking by sitting on the concrete of our driveway or the school entrance. Calvin waits patiently for the lengthy negotiation between Mom/Dad and Elliott to conclude before the walk continues. Such a sweet little {big} brother, that boy.
She cannot read though she knows all her letters. I am confident (nay, dedicated) she will read one day, though it will not be learned via a traditional path nor timeline.
She cannot ride a bike though loves to be pulled in a wagon for family walks around the neighborhood.
She cannot successfully blow her own nose rather leaving a line of snot to be collected by the adult in her presence and a second Kleenex.
She cannot write her name without support from an adult hand ouija board style overlaying hers.
She cannot yet understand the dangers of straying away from Mom and Dad in crowded spaces, to the point where we need to hold her hand to keep her safe…and not lose her. (I often joke that I need to put a bell on her…but also, not a joke. Kiiiiind of a good idea.)
She cannot. She cannot. She cannot… ugh.
In other ways, Elliott is a wise old woman. Around 75 years young. Having endured more medical ailments than all her peers and not giving a single damn about anyones opinions - living her life exactly as she wishes. It’s this latter part of her wide age spectrum that I’ve yet to fully learn from. Though, I continue to try. We’ve grown up in a world where we care exceedingly about what others think of us. Of our choices, our bodies, our house, our car, our lives. And what does it get us? These plaguing thoughts are mind murdering and spirit slaughtering. Slowly losing my sense of self until I’m exactly what (I’m told) society wants me to be. I’ve spent the better part of my 30’s combatting these deep-seated roots of societal brainwashing, somewhat successfully and somewhat not. Maybe my 40s will help me cross over that finish line, we’ll see.
And my darling girl was born without it. As if that third 21st chromosome is a get-out-of-societal-norms-jail-free card. The list of cannots is dissipated by the fact that she can live her life without concern for others flawed views of “right” and “proper.”
Yet, despite her gift, I still find myself trying to correct her behavior to better align with the very societal expectations that can paralyze me.
Even now, writing. One of my very favorite pastimes, I am flooded with thoughts of what others will think when they read my words. I find myself deleting content based upon predictions I make of others thoughts and it stops me from writing. Again, one of my favorite pastimes… stops me from doing something I viscerally enjoy. Why do I allow that; what does it get me? (I’m sure Shakespeare, Hemingway and all the greats did this too, right?)
<writer audibly laughs as she compared herself to Shakespeare and Hemingway>
I grew up dancing. Dance classes as a young girl complete with seasonal recitals where tutu-twirling and bun-wearing little ballerinas filled a stage while proud parents took an obscene amount of photos. In high school I started out in color guard then moved into drill team, dancing in both groups. One with flagpoles, one with pompoms. For the better part of college, I was in a group called Dance Arts Society at Texas A&M where hip hop became my fast favorite style of expression.
Before having children, I dreamed of my mythical daughter enjoying dance as I did in my youth. I dreamed of putting her hair in a bun and buying her first pink leotard and tights. I dreamed of watching her find her own preferred style of expression be that hip hop, like her mama, or lyrical, a style of dance for which I was simply not made. I dreamed of her feeling the way I did back then, and still do today when good music fills the air - impossible to keep my body still.
When my daughter arrived I knew some pre-children dreams would change and new dreams would emerge as I got to know my child. I never thought the dance dream was a real possibility and therefore, didn’t pursue it.
Last year, a good friend gave me a gentle push to dust off that dream and see what came of it. The Houston Ballet has a class for children with Down syndrome. My friend, also having a daughter with Ds and also having grown up a dancer, enrolled her girl. Sometimes in life, we just need a buddy - ya know, safety in numbers. So, I enrolled Elliott and the adventure began.
The classes were every Saturday for 12 weeks. We were not allowed to watch which was… umm… challenging. I am very used to being {overly} involved in Elliott’s activities. Spending hours, day, weeks, months, educating her teachers, therapists, babysitters, on how to speak Elliott. But this, this was different. She just had to be a kid and enter that studio and figure it out. Or rather, they had to figure her out.
As expected, after class, the teachers would ask me for tips on how best to get Elliott to participate. I’d offer one or two tools from my toolkit, then the next Saturday a couple more tools, until my toolkit was empty and Elliott still was not doing what she was supposed to do.
This studio was massive. One wall with floor to ceiling mirrors and a ballet bar that stretched the length of the room. In the corner, was a congo drum player - he would create beats and adjust the pace as each dancer did as they were instructed but at their own speed. The music was beautiful, it made me want to dance.
However, it made Elliott want to sprint around the studio giggling as the teachers chased her…
At the end of the 12 weeks, the parents were able to watch the students during class for a make shift recital. Basically, observe how they teach the children and what each dancer had learned over the 3 months. Brad and I had to split parental duties that day, he was at Calvin’s t-ball game and I was at Elliott’s last class show-n-tell.
I had a feeling it wasn’t going to go well but I channeled my bravery and hoped for the best and you know what….
It wasn’t so bad!
…
I jest. It was terrible. Elliott was the only dancer of about 15 not doing what she was supposed to do. The ONLY one. She had two dance teacher assistants basically chasing her around the studio while she cackled. Cackled! I intervened thrice and it got better for a minute or two, and then it was back to the solo game of tag.
I was mortified and disappointed. Wishing I could correct her behavior to align with the expectations of society and the Houston ballet.
I rushed out of there as soon as the class was over fussing at Elliott “If you like dance class, you have to participate in dance class! You can’t run around and do whatever you want to do! That is not acceptable!”
We get home and I could feel all the feelings just bubbling up inside of me. I needed to let them out in a controlled manner or they would explode in a far less controled scenario. My mom was at the house watching Bennett and Brad was almost home with Calvin but I needed to escape at that very moment. I needed privacy. I needed sanctuary. I needed a safe place.
I laid on the floor and cried.
The lights were off. The wooden floor was cold. I felt contained and therefore safe to let all my tears out until there were none left to flow. I held a pity party for one. It was a rager, you should’ve been there was the invite list bigger.
I heard Brad get home and my Mom mumble something to him.
Moments later the closet door opened.
Brad looks at me empathetically. Streams of words fly from my mouth amidst my tears. “I drive her downtown and back every weekend, and she doesn’t do what she is supposed to, and it’s so much effort and for what? Why did I even try this, I knew it wasn’t going to work out! I just want something to be easy for her (and me) for once!”
More sobs.
Brad asks “What can I do?”
Me: “Bring me a pillow.”
Brad brings me a pillow and closes the door so I can continue with whatever it is I need to continue.
I lay on the pillow looking up at the dry cleaning bags, old t-shirts (that I swear I’ll make a quilt with one day) and dresses one size too small. I think to myself - I love this closet.
Since the first great Closet Cry of Spring 2024 there have been several more for various reasons, Elliott-related or otherwise.
Elliott and I both haven’t given up on dance. We moved her to the River Oaks Dance Studio which has a similar program to the Houston Ballet but in a much smaller space. She is doing better there, yet certainly not on top of the pyramid. (Dance Mom’s anyone?)
Maybe she feels more contained and safe in that smaller space… maybe I can relate.
Elliott will likely never do as she is expected naturally. Rather, she will likely do as she desires. And sometimes I wonder, when I was 7 years old in dance class - did I just want to freestyle to the congo drum too?
Probably.
Maybe when I’m 75, I’ll join a dance class and I will do just that - not feeling any pull to correct my own behavior.
Until the nexT21,
Aubrey
