Chrissy and Briella share a pink-and-white bedroom decorated with Frozen posters. They often sit on Chrissy's bed in front of a soldier-like row of Barbie dolls, carefully attending to each one with a comb or tiny toy hairbrush. Because Briella is a fearless climber, the furniture is bolted to the walls, the doors are latched, and the windows are sealed. At the foot of the bed is an air-filtering machine to ease Chrissy's upper respiratory allergies. Chrissy is 28, and Briella is 7. They are the oldest and youngest of my five adopted children, and both have Down syndrome and other health problems. Since COVID-19 began, the three of us have been spending every day at home.
At 4 feet 9 inches and 112 pounds, Chrissy is often mistaken for a young teen. Stressed by changes in routine and unable to read beyond sight words, she relies heavily on structure and visual cues. Briella is impulsive and highly energetic. She fell out of a second-story window once and was unharmed. Another day she happily smeared the contents of her diaper on a wall and pronounced it a "beautiful castle."
On the first day of the school week, Chrissy strips the beds and loads sheets into the washer. With the help of labels and numbering, she knows which buttons to push to start the machine. In the meantime, I congratulate Briella on her dry diaper.
After breakfast, we log in to the school's virtual morning circle, where Briella and her four special needs classmates review the days of the week, date, and weather. Chrissy makes her bed and empties the recycle bin with cues to pick up dropped items.
During Briella's virtual reading lesson, Chrissy transfers laundry to the dryer. When we log off the computer, the girls go play in their room and I step out for a brisk walk to clear my head and refresh my energy for the afternoon.
When I return, the girls and I eat lunch. I gently ask Briella not to stuff her mouth full of grapes as I read a story about why we need to wear masks when we go out. Chrissy recites the date and everything that could possibly be scheduled for each day this week while Briella tries to put grapes between her toes.
After lunch it's back to school. This week we're doing adapted art lessons: sponge-painting shapes and assembling circular objects from largest to smallest and outlining and coloring the resulting design. Chrissy complains about the paint touching her hands, and I coax Briella into following each direction rather than smearing the paint or scribbling over the design. Afterward the girls share an electronic tablet in the living room while I clean up the paint and wash dishes.
Next, we roll a cube with sight words printed on it for a game I call Roll and Talk. Chrissy struggles more than Briella over "can," but we have fun taking turns. After a snack, Chrissy feeds our bunny, and Briella and I watch a math lesson on the computer.
While I prepare dinner, the girls play in their room. Frozen music bursts out of a boom box, and the girls begin spinning around and around, arms outstretched, singing happily until they slip or dizzily collapse into giggles. "You're so cute!" Chrissy proclaims, and then adds, "I love you, Briella." Briella smiles and replies, "I love you, Chrissy."
After I read a calming story by flashlight to the girls, they are asleep within 20 minutes. In the blissful quiet, I write in my journal and put lavender oil on my feet.
Although my life hasn't gone quite as planned—I faced an unexpected divorce after adopting my first four children—my values have remained the same. After my divorce, I became a foster parent to another child, whom I eventually adopted. I manage the chaos and occasional loneliness through journals and scrapbooks that allow me to express gratitude and document joy.
As I drift off to sleep, I know that my girls and I will begin another dance tomorrow.