Switched at Birth: The True Story of a Mother's Journey by Kathryn Kennish, ABC Family Page A
Authors: Kathryn Kennish, ABC Family
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do, wouldn’t you?”
Despite my exhaustion, I felt my mind shifting into “organize” mode.
“We’re all going to learn sign language,” I announced. “I’ll buy a book tomorrow. Or maybe a DVD. I’m sure they have a DVD.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“And I noticed that Daphne wears hearing aids. I think they take special batteries, don’t they? I’m going to get some, just so we’ll always have them handy, in case—”
“Good night, Kathryn.”
“Good night.”
I snuggled under the blanket and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Four
To give you an idea of how nerve-wracking it was to know that my newly extended family (which was the description I’d settled on since I couldn’t come up with a better one) was moving in across the driveway, I will tell you about a shopping trip I made.
When the Vasquezes accepted our invitation to come live in Mission Hills, I promptly went up to the guesthouse and cleaned it within an inch of its life. I swept, I dusted, I waxed, I vacuumed. But John’s college buddies had been merciless on the linens, and I knew there was not enough Clorox in the world to make those sheets and towels look new again.
So I went shopping.
Now, I will cop to having a tendency to “over-engineer” certain projects. When Bay was nine and went to sleepaway summer camp, for example, I packed exactly sixteen outfits (one for every day of the two-week stay and two additional in case she got muddy or a juice box exploded on her). The outfits included socks and underwear and were tucked into sixteen individual ziplock plastic bags. Each bag was labeled to indicate which outfit was to be worn on what day and for which activity. The jean shorts and Spice Girls T-shirt were for Tuesday’s arts and crafts class; the madras Bermudas and green polo shirt were for Thursday’s archery competition. Swimsuits were for swimming, of course (one-piece for the lake, two-piece for the pool) … You get the picture.
Well, I got a picture, too. It was included with Bay’s first letter home, and she was smiling triumphantly, decked out in the tank top and white skirt I’d earmarked especially for tennis lessons. But she wasn’t wearing the skirt ensemble for tennis, she was wearing it for the all-camp canoe regatta. And the socks she had on didn’t even belong to her.
Message received, Bay, loud and clear.
My shopping trip to purchase new linens for the guesthouse was an exercise in that same kind of overthinking.
Every towel and sheet set I owned had been purchased at a store called Scandia Down in Kansas City, and I would be lying if I said they hadn’t all been exorbitantly expensive. But sleeping on those sheets was like sleeping on a cloud, and the towels were plump and thirsty enough to soak up a large pond. I wanted only the best for Daphne, so, being as I was in need of new linens, out of habit I headed straight to that upscale bedding shop.
Then I thought, Maybe Regina will think I’m showing off by making up her bed with four-hundred-dollar sheets. Will it be thoughtless of me to stock the bathroom with towels that cost more money than she earns in a month?
So I pulled out of Country Club Plaza and drove to Walmart, where I sat in the parking lot, hating myself for a good twenty minutes. What kind of message would these linens send?
I didn’t want to insult anyone, I didn’t want to impress anyone. I just wanted to be welcoming. But I was driving myself crazy over pillowcases!
In the end, I split the difference and purchased new towels and three sets of sheets at Bed Bath & Beyond, reasoning that with regard to price and quality, the chain fell somewhere in the middle between my first two attempts. I was able to relax at last, knowing that nothing could be read into a receipt from Bed Bath & Beyond.
A week later, the moving van arrived, and my heart soared to know that at long last I had all three of my children, if not under the same contiguous roof, at least residing at the same
Despite my exhaustion, I felt my mind shifting into “organize” mode.
“We’re all going to learn sign language,” I announced. “I’ll buy a book tomorrow. Or maybe a DVD. I’m sure they have a DVD.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“And I noticed that Daphne wears hearing aids. I think they take special batteries, don’t they? I’m going to get some, just so we’ll always have them handy, in case—”
“Good night, Kathryn.”
“Good night.”
I snuggled under the blanket and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Four
To give you an idea of how nerve-wracking it was to know that my newly extended family (which was the description I’d settled on since I couldn’t come up with a better one) was moving in across the driveway, I will tell you about a shopping trip I made.
When the Vasquezes accepted our invitation to come live in Mission Hills, I promptly went up to the guesthouse and cleaned it within an inch of its life. I swept, I dusted, I waxed, I vacuumed. But John’s college buddies had been merciless on the linens, and I knew there was not enough Clorox in the world to make those sheets and towels look new again.
So I went shopping.
Now, I will cop to having a tendency to “over-engineer” certain projects. When Bay was nine and went to sleepaway summer camp, for example, I packed exactly sixteen outfits (one for every day of the two-week stay and two additional in case she got muddy or a juice box exploded on her). The outfits included socks and underwear and were tucked into sixteen individual ziplock plastic bags. Each bag was labeled to indicate which outfit was to be worn on what day and for which activity. The jean shorts and Spice Girls T-shirt were for Tuesday’s arts and crafts class; the madras Bermudas and green polo shirt were for Thursday’s archery competition. Swimsuits were for swimming, of course (one-piece for the lake, two-piece for the pool) … You get the picture.
Well, I got a picture, too. It was included with Bay’s first letter home, and she was smiling triumphantly, decked out in the tank top and white skirt I’d earmarked especially for tennis lessons. But she wasn’t wearing the skirt ensemble for tennis, she was wearing it for the all-camp canoe regatta. And the socks she had on didn’t even belong to her.
Message received, Bay, loud and clear.
My shopping trip to purchase new linens for the guesthouse was an exercise in that same kind of overthinking.
Every towel and sheet set I owned had been purchased at a store called Scandia Down in Kansas City, and I would be lying if I said they hadn’t all been exorbitantly expensive. But sleeping on those sheets was like sleeping on a cloud, and the towels were plump and thirsty enough to soak up a large pond. I wanted only the best for Daphne, so, being as I was in need of new linens, out of habit I headed straight to that upscale bedding shop.
Then I thought, Maybe Regina will think I’m showing off by making up her bed with four-hundred-dollar sheets. Will it be thoughtless of me to stock the bathroom with towels that cost more money than she earns in a month?
So I pulled out of Country Club Plaza and drove to Walmart, where I sat in the parking lot, hating myself for a good twenty minutes. What kind of message would these linens send?
I didn’t want to insult anyone, I didn’t want to impress anyone. I just wanted to be welcoming. But I was driving myself crazy over pillowcases!
In the end, I split the difference and purchased new towels and three sets of sheets at Bed Bath & Beyond, reasoning that with regard to price and quality, the chain fell somewhere in the middle between my first two attempts. I was able to relax at last, knowing that nothing could be read into a receipt from Bed Bath & Beyond.
A week later, the moving van arrived, and my heart soared to know that at long last I had all three of my children, if not under the same contiguous roof, at least residing at the same
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