Crying for Mozart

It's Saturday morning and Tamara, still gloved, has just laid Savannah on her gurney in the play room.  She has wiped the night away, pulled the straggles of hair from Savannah's face, and adorned her with clean pajamas.

Savannah fidgets, jonesing for her fix.  I cover her legs with a blanket.

"Good morning, Savannah."

She searches for me with wild eyes.  She groans a long vowel that ends in a coughing fit and clenched fists.

I push a cocktail of medicine into her tube.  I set up her feeding pump.  I turn on the TV.

An Angelina Ballerina cartoon plays.

I stroke her hair back from her forehead.  "Have a nice breakfast," I say and move into the kitchen to make a batch of waffles for the other child.

Savannah's complaint begins with a low whine, like a growl.  It grows to a cry.  Soon she is wailing so hard that she can barely breathe.  This is not the cry of a baby.  This is the cry of a fourteen year old girl, a teenager.  It is loud and painful.

"What's up with Tweet?" Tamara says.

"I don't know.  Maybe she had a startle seizure.  Sometimes those make her cry," I say.

"Maybe she doesn't like the show."

"I wouldn't blame her.  Angelina Ballerina sucks," I say.

I walk back into the playroom.  "Hey, Savannah." I try to get her attention, but it is no use.  Her eyes are locked shut, her mouth is full-open, and she wails.  I can see down her throat.

I turn off the TV and flip on her radio.  It is tuned to KMFA, the local classical station.

She is crying so hard, I can hear nothing, so I ease the volume up.  It is Mozart.  A warm, morning minuet.

"How about some music?"

I stroke her head once more and walk back to the kitchen.  A few minutes later the house is tranquil.

"She wanted music, didn't she?" Tamara says, noticing the quiet.

"She sure loves music."

Ruby strolls into the kitchen, as if on cue, she says, "She gets that from her Daddy."

 happy listening to music
Happy with Mozart

#SpecialNeeds #disability #Mozart #parenting


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