Mother and Disorderly Child

It either stands to reason or defies logic that a storm would be the tool to calm a child experiencing the thunder of a behavioral disorder. I discovered this tool accidentally and early on in my daughter's life. It was the catalyst for my unending quest to understand her, guide her, and in turn help myself.

A tornado watch had just been issued for the Kansas plains when I held my baby just five hours old, brought to me because her endless shrieking kept the other babies in the nursery awake. She calmed only in my arms looking out the window where the lightning closed her deepest blue eyes and the thunder muffled my lullaby.

When she was two years old I could no longer bear the guttural crying, gasping, and shaking another minute. Recently settled on the east coast, the doctors were as vague and indifferent about the cause as they were in the Midwest. It just couldn't be "colic" anymore. I refused to believe I was "a bad mother" and I wouldn't accept that she was "just an unhappy child". In the background the radio crackled. She threw herself to the floor. Hurricane Gloria had arrived. With a convulsively screaming child in tow, I stepped out into the pouring rain. I cuddled her close in an attempt to sedate her mounting frustrations. She helplessly gulped the pure forces of wind and gaped in awe of its pressure against her face. She blinked wildly against driving rain and wouldn't turn away. Her vision danced compulsively from lightning show to lightning show as if she knew where each would strike next.

Thunder filled the air and then her throat, not like an anguished cry, now rather like an answer. The storm called to her and her to it. When wind gave in to breeze, she cooed. When lightning powdered behind clouds she lay her head on my shoulder. When finally thunder rumbled distant she succumbed to sleep. Her storm slumbers were deep if not disturbingly long for one who, to this day, has never slept through the night.

Eight years later and in the Mojave, she clung to digital recordings of thunderstorms like the heartbroken whose lover has gone out to sea. One rare and cloudy evening, the high desert winds blew in something seen only too long ago. I waited in the distance and watched. My living barometer was on the move. She turned on a dime in skates never meant to do so and took in a deep breath. Her eyes canvassed and then pierced the landscape for the source. She left the smooth sidewalk and headed over rocks, sand, and twisted desert plants. Her arms heaved to keep her balance as her body leaned for speed. She collapsed on a mound of dirt we'd made grassy for just such an occasion.

Article Author: Diana Hartman

Diana (nee Gulick) Hartman is the Culture and Tastes Editor for Blogcritics.org. She is a freelance writer, mother of three, and a (Ret.) US Marine spouse. She is a Wichita, Kansas native, having also lived in the California desert, Southern California, and eastern North Carolina. …

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