“First Breakfast, then School, then Scooby Doo.” I tick off each item on my finger as I name them to my son, Westley. It had taken me a minute to shrink the schedule into just three items and to end them with the desired one, but after what seemed like an eternity—and was really about sixty seconds—I finally got it to the essentials.
Westley is not convinced by my ingenious daily three. His eyes dart around the room, voices wavering so much, I can’t tell if its his or mine.
“That’s the plan Westley, do you hear me? First Breakfast, then School, then Scooby Doo. That’s the Plan.”
Stenta’s son, Westley.
We have to get everyone ready for school, but there is no hope for that unless we sort out that there is no time for Westley to watch his show now—only after school. Thus we promise that after school is when he can watch Scooby Doo.” I almost always use we language, even in my head, in these situations. It reminds me that I am not doing this alone (thank God)—that we are working on this as a family and that Westley is participating too.
I have been chasing him around the room with oatmeal, and he has been worked up because someone mentioned the remote, and now he wants to watch TV. Or maybe that’s not why—sometimes I really can’t tell.
Westley’s breathing might be the only sound I hear, as I try to ignore the toys on the floor, the ticking of the clock.
Westley rocks back and forth, looking at my fingers, struggling to find the words he needs to say. You can see a million thoughts behind his eyes.
“First Breakfast, then School, then Scooby Doo, that’s the Plan,” I repeat, one item for each finger, and then looking straight at him for the end so that he knows I am serious about the plan part. I dare not take my eyes off of him, because he has now connected his hand to mine.
“Breakfast, then School, then Scooby Doo, that’s the Plan.” This time I emphasize each title slightly, with a breath, slow and deep, because he knows what each of these things are—then pausing after to give him time to process.
“Mama, I can’t find my socks,” my eldest—who predictably needs help finding something and would like all the attention on themselves—barrels in and gives this important announcement and update to their life! The sheer force of their entry knocks down some loose papers and items that lay on top of them on the coffee table as they pass. I try not to wince as things fall that I cannot pick up. Ashburn, my youngest, follows behind them, trying to keep up and “help” as much as his little hands will let him—he is very organized but limited in size.
“Okay, Franky, I can help you in a minute, but first I have to help Westley. There should be some in the sock bin in the library, otherwise you have to wait. Breakfast, School, Scooby Doo, that’s the Plan, West,” I continue as if it is all the same conversation. This is normal—its best to keep going if one is talking and end with the schedule.
Westley looks at me confused. I feel my heart beating fast and all of my senses are heightened—and I realize: I haven’t said the exact liturgy. I have messed it up. I take his hand in mine, and say it again. I don’t know when I realized that I do the same thing—go over the schedule when I feel overwhelmed or stressed, but I do it, we all do it.
The fact that my child needs someone to do it with him is inconsequential. The fact we have to do it practically everyday is also silly. What do I do every single day to comfort myself? I go over my schedule. Why should he be any different. I raise my hand again, “First Breakfast, then School, then Scooby Doo, that’s the Plan” I say firmly, conclusively, with promise.
Finally, Westley raises his pointer finger, with mine and says it with me. Ashburn chimes in too, “First Breakfast, then School, then Scooby Doo, that’s the Plan!”
Some days the finger liturgy is enough. Westley knows enough about his own needs that sometimes he will go up to teachers or family members or friends and pull on their fingers, signaling for them to go over the daily liturgy. Unfortunately, usually, they do not remember to do this touchstone for Westley. On good days, he demonstrates what he needs for them.
Today, I have the feeling the finger schedule is not sufficient.
“Good job, Westley—you did it! You want a picture so you can hold onto it?”
Westley says, “Yes.”
I grab an envelope—hmm, it’s a free one for a bill that needs to be paid, oh well I’ll pay online or find a different one—and find the nearest working writing implement—where do they all disappear to throughout the day, I wonder?—finally it is a crayon that is darker than yellow.
We are not melting down, and Westley is able to wait while I do all this, a good sign. My heart slows down a little bit.
So I draw out our covenant, in a language that we will both be able to discern and understand—still speaking the liturgy, which is similar day to day but may be more or less particular depending on the daily lectionary. First Breakfast: I draw a simple circle plate. Then School: I draw a very sketchy school bus outline with the classic door, big wheels and the triangle front window followed by squares (my buses are getting a bit better). Then Scooby Doo: a square within a square serves as an image for the TV. That’s the plan: Amen. Then I hand this now sacred covenantal document, in crayon, on the back of an envelope, to Westley.
He has me repeat it a couple more times with the drawing—to carve it into stone no doubt—while he is pointing to each picture, to make certain he is still beloved, heard, and understood.
“See Westley, we promise: you will get you to your show,” I say, not sure if I’m talking more to him or to me as he walks away, finally satisfied. He wrinkles it close his heart, the daily symbol that we will make through the day.
I make a mental note to put it in his folder, and then turn to text his teacher that he was already uneasy about the daily schedule and type the exact liturgy we said at home to soothe him, and tell her that the picture is in the backpack.
In a few minutes, I might grab it back from him, and write the words upon it.
If there’s time—but first, I have to find the socks.
Rev. Katy Stenta is the pastor of New Covenant Presbyterian Church in Albany, New York. She is currently pursuing a Doctor of Ministry degree in Creative Writing and Public Theology from Pittsburgh Theological Seminary.