Chapter 6 - Lena’s hatred of whining
Lena had always hated whining.
The word itself could change her face.
Children whining in restaurants.
Dogs whining at doors.
Adults complaining about work.
“Either fix it or shut up.”
That was Lena.
As a teenager, she was praised for being tough.
She played varsity soccer with a sprained ankle once.
Peter called her:
“My soldier.”
I was different.
I cried easily.
Got migraines.
Hated confrontation.
Diane called me:
“Sensitive.”
Those labels became identities.
Lena tough.
Anna sensitive.
When Eli was born, my parents began assigning him to my category before he could speak.
“He’s just like you.”
Sometimes affectionate.
Sometimes not.
Eli did have a low tolerance for noise and strong smells.
Fire alarms terrified him.
Perfume bothered him.
Tags in shirts sometimes drove him crazy.
We had asked his pediatrician whether this needed evaluation.
She said:
“Monitor it. Lots of young kids have sensory preferences. If it interferes significantly with daily functioning, we can refer.”
It did not.
He attended kindergarten.
Birthday parties.
Movie theaters with headphones if needed.
Normal.
Lena treated accommodations as moral weakness.
She once told me:
“You’re training him to believe discomfort is an emergency.”
I said:
“I’m training him to tell me when something bothers him.”
“Exactly.”
That difference sat underneath the perfume bottle.
When Eli said:
“Too strong,”
May you like
Lena did not hear information.
She heard defiance.
