The Unfair Day at the Fair

Last week, we went to the state fair. A good friend had sent us complimentary tickets, the Gopher was working at one of the exhibit buildings, and we hadn't been in a few years. I imagined a storybook kind of day, full of laughter and memories and mountains of food. In a gesture of general happiness, and to her great delight, Daughter was allowed to leave her glasses and hearing aids at home.

Alas, it was not meant to be. If nothing more, you have to admire my persistence and the force of energy I exerted before giving up.

We left for the fairgrounds around 9 a.m. I texted the Gopher that we were on our way, and planning for at least 12 hours of continuous happiness. Along with the other 226,800 people attending the fair that day.

The sun was out as we parked, and I told the Diva to get the sunscreen out. We use the spray stuff. The Diva hates sunscreen, but she burns easily so she has learned to somewhat endure it. We all hop out of the car and assume the usual positions - Daughter holding out limbs, me spraying away. For whatever reason, we weren't on the same page, and as I sprayed away, Daughter and I became gradually more annoyed with each other. Maybe she was tired. Maybe I was over-excited to eat my first cheese curd. Whatever the case, after spraying down her arms and legs, I said "Close your eyes," and just as I pushed the button, she - of course - opens them.

Husband and I stare in horror, and Daughter grabs her eyes. Husband says helpfully, "You maced her."

As Daughter is rubbing her eyes, I'm trying to explain to her that I didn't purposefully do this. I said to her, "Would your mother do this if she didn't love you?"

OK. Obviously, the right answer is No. No mother, I know you love me, I know you tried to put sunscreen on me because you love you and don't want me to burn, and this was an unfortunate casualty that I assisted in bringing upon myself because I didn't trust you when you told me to close my eyes.

A mom can dream, right?

Instead, she says loudly (no hearing aids, remember), "I love you Mom!"

As gaggles of fairgoers walk by, Husband asks even louder, "DO YOU THINK YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T LOVE YOU?"

To which Daughter responds hoarsely, with tears, "I LOVE YOU MOM!"

This routine occurs one more time, and as it does I realize that people are observing this lovely Diva, with crazy red eyes and tears, having some kind of weird yelling match wherein we are forcing her to declare a love she clearly does not feel at the moment.

"Get in the car!" I hiss. We all get in the car. We have a pep talk. We model how we will apply the sunscreen once we get out of the car. We each take a turn role-playing the suncreen-ee. We get out of the car. We start over. We attempt to salvage the day.

We walk around the fair. The Gopher joins us. The sun beats down on us. Sure glad the Diva is sunscreened, I thought to myself...

Sometime around noon, the Diva starts getting a little irritable. She has a scowl on her face, she refuses to keep pace as we walk, and is generally the Diva of Derision. With each angry step she takes, I feel my perfect day cracking just a little bit more. And so my frustration begins to build.

It all comes to a head by the cow barn. We purchase some food and drink, and are trying to stay generally manure free. Daughter is sucking down lemonade as if she's been on a desert death march. As we share a rib sandwich, she continues (what I perceive as) her mini-acts of defiance... purposefully trying to stand as far away from me as possible; when I ask her to put down her drink for a minute she looks to Husband to see if she really has to; when I ask her point-blank to do something she stares at me blankly. Husband and Gopher have no idea what kind of female warfare is going on directly under their noses.

At some point, I passionately inform Daughter that her behavior is unacceptable. She pulls out her Ace: She bursts into loud sobs and starts a puddle of tears. We are miles from the car. Nothing can hide us from the public shame of making this poor Diva cry. The Gopher excuses himself with some quickly-thought-up excuse about having to get back, they sure must be missing him by now. Lucky duck.

Husband calms her down, and I have a new plan. We will go to the coliseum, sit down, and watch the cow show until Daughter feels better. Plus, I will have some time to calm down as well.

We sit for about five minutes. Husband asks Daughter if she feels sick, and Daughter nods yes. And then she starts the retching noises.

Abandon ship! Husband, Daughter and I make a beeline to the car. And I am so unjustifiably angry at Daughter. Even faced with pretty strong evidence that this is beyond the Diva being difficult, I can't help but resent her for "ruining" my day at the fair.

It wasn't until she started puking into a plastic shopko bag when we were halfway home that I opened myself up to other underlying causes of Daughter's behavior.

As I replayed the day's events in my mind, it suddenly became clear that Daughter had overheated. She didn't sweat, her face was flushed, she was tired and irritable, and she threw up. But to be honest, even if I hadn't been gunning for the "Perfect Day" of non-stop fair fun, I might not have noticed the early red flags. The Diva lacks awareness of subtle physical indicators (i.e. when she finally says she needs a bathroom, it is always an emergency), she doesn't proactively communicate, and even when she does, her vocabulary is quite limited. Most school-aged kids can tell you exactly what they feel and need, but Divas often can't. In short, being a Diva mom requires supernatural powers, and I'm still honing mine.

The point of this post is to make sure I don't sugar-coat what it means to be a Diva mom. Some days I cry because she is so amazing. Some days I cry because she is so amazingly difficult. And some days I cry because God is molding my heart into something new, and it really hurts.

On this particular day, I needed a break, and luckily Husband's sister was able to watch the Diva in a cool, climate-controlled environment for the rest of the day while Husband and I enjoyed a long-overdue date night. And when we were reunited later that weekend, the Diva and I were both recharged and back on the same wavelength. Many lessons learned, including what anhidrosis is, and that other Down syndrome kids have it. Until next time -