I buckled my son on the bus this morning. “Remember” I signed to him. “Remember Mom loves you.” He nodded and waved his hands back at me. I waved him down the driveway.

All week I have been reminding my children to remember as we wildly swing into the routine of September. Remember your backpack. Coat. Shoes. Oh my gosh your other shoes. Your lunch. Not his lunch. YOUR lunch. Remember the zoom time, your password. No, I don’t know your password. Why would I know your password?! Remember the book, your snack. Remember what day we’re on. The plan please.

“Remember last year?” one asked me. “We were way more organized.”

My 2 year old niece Em loves cheerios. She holds them so tightly in her little fist, because she loves them. She wants to eat them, but also doesn’t want to open her fist to expose them. She freezes, stuck in the impossible. How does she eat her favorite food, if she can’t get to her favorite food? And how does she keep her favorite food safe if she has to open her hand? So there she will stand, in the middle of my kitchen, looking at me for an answer. 

Addicts count days. My 9 year old daughter counts sheep. My 10 year old son counts to two. Then he starts over. One, two he says. One, two. Sometimes he will get all the way up to seven. For a while he could count to ten, but then the seizures happened and I don’t know what fritzed inside his brain. I picture it getting red and orange and now he counts to two again. On good days he knows that one means one and two means one and one more. On most days, he is just counting.

I count too. My son Jesús gets medication in the morning. He gets medication in the evening. Two different types of medication, two times a day. As the mother of a child with disabilities I cannot forget the medication. If I do, he will most certainly have a seizure. I cannot forget the medication. I absolutely cannot forget. As a mother. Also, and equally, as a human, I have forgotten his medication.

My sons Jesús (9) and Yan (7) ask each other if they are happy over 5 times an hour. Depending on how much language they have in those hours variations will include, “Zigadee happy? Cappy? Hoppy? Ese, esa, happy? Si appy?” They answer in call and response.  “Yes yes,” and return the question. Or “no no”. If the answer is no no, there is sighing, comforting and repeated asking if the other is happy now, or…now? 

A while ago I had to have a cyst removed on the back of my head. Besides me being fairly dramatic about making the phone call to schedule the procedure, the whole thing was not a big deal and the marble size bump was removed and my head stitched up with little fanfare. My long hair covered the wound and all was well. The doctor said I would have a small divot for a bit and I made the mistake of telling my kids. They were fascinated. Not by the procedure or my well-being of course, but that I could be walking around town with a "hole in my head" and, mostly, that no one knew.