The Elephant in the Room Idiomation

An idiom is defined as a combination of literal words that possess a figurative meaning. There are presently an estimated 25,000 idiomatic expressions in the English language. The idiom, the elephant in the room, was first introduced as a conceptual reference by Mark Twain in 1882 with the release of his story The Stolen White Elephant.

When the brunette was a baby, the mother bought her a stuffed gray elephant. The mother thought the elephant could serve as a consolation-comforting device, after the brunette refused to take a binky. Never in her wildest dreams did she think, the brunette would bond with the elephant and choose to suck on his trunk as a pseudo pacifier.

For the father, a heightened germ-aphobe, it’s the elephant in the room he conspiratorially blames for anything that seemingly ailes the brunette, just sure that the elephant, in spite of the mothers repeated washings, is the source of unnatural levels of bacteria.

The mother once actually attempted to replace the aging elephant with an identical model, but the brunette was not to be fooled and without even touching the imposter elephant knew it was not her beloved companion. For the mother losing the toy, and the unspeakable horror that would follow come nap and bedtime, is her personal elephant in the room.

Seemingly a silent member of the family, Mr. Elephant has participated in many of the families adventures and this story is told from the perspective of the brunette’s beloved elephant.

I heard the mother talking to the little boy and blonde haired girl, they were told they could select one animal for their new baby sister….and they chose me. Heading home in the car, I was so excited to meet the little baby girl who was to be born later in the week.

It was a Sunday, the day the mother and father brought the brunette home from the hospital. From what I could make out, being owned by a baby was magical. You get to be surrounded by love, joy, and have a playmate for years. I recall the mother walking into the nursery with the brunette in her arms, but as the mother placed the baby into her crib for the first time, I could tell something was wrong.

The mother, who I had observed during my first week in the home, often given to laughter…. seemed somehow changed. There was sadness in her eyes and before she walked out of the room leaving the brunette and I alone in the crib, I saw the mother let out a big sigh and then she closed the door behind her. I looked up at the brunette in the darkness. She was sleeping so peacefully, and yet I could tell she was unlike the other children….much of her body was marked with a purple shadow. I nudged closer to her side, and in the stillness, encompassed by the sound of ocean waves…we slept.

As we lay in silence in her room, I wondered what was so different about this little baby?

As the days passed, I watched as the mother tried to not let the other children know anything was wrong but even as she busied herself making phone calls to specialists, I could tell she seemed lost and in search of answers. Dermatologists, Ophthalmologists, Neurologists, and the Vascular Anomalies Clinic at Children’s hospital in Washington DC, were all wanting to meet with the baby. The brunette had been born with an atypical form of port-wine stain where over 60% of her body was covered with a net of additional vessels. There seemed to be little known as to the cause of this condition and a great deal of fear associated with the fact that there could also be some other very serious syndromes and medical side affects from such an extensive level of coverage.

Sitting on the back of the couch, I watched the mother and wondered if there really could be something wrong with the precious and content baby.

After several months and a series of testing, the mother and the father were able to eliminate the majority of potential medical conditions the pediatrician had first proposed might be affecting the brunette. They seemed to take some comfort in the fact that despite her altered appearance, the brunette was by all other regards a very healthy child.

The mother was able to get the brunette in to see a very talented Dermatologist at Children’s Hospital, who assured the parents that the brunette could undergo a series of laser treatments and that there had been some promising break-throughs in this treatment approach to help diminish the markings. The brunette would have to hold off until she was 6 months old to begin the procedure as she would have to go under anesthesia each time to treat her properly, and so we waited.

Sitting in the nearby baby swing, listening to the mother on the phone, I wondered what the future would hold for the little brown haired baby.

The first time the brunette had laser surgery; I was nestled in the car seat next to her on our ride to the hospital. The brunette was happy and she trusted the mother completely. The mother appeared very brave during the drive, and while talking with the staff. After check in, as I waited beside the mother in the post op chairs; I noticed a single tear roll down the mother’s cheek. Mothers worry sometimes I think, but mostly when they think no one can see them.

Waiting in the recovery room , I wondered if one day she would no longer need me? I hoped not but I knew that I was glad to be with her today.

With the surgery deemed a success, the mother went back to sit with the baby. The mother walked with her for a while as the anesthesia wore off and after a few minutes, pulled me out of the bag and handed me to the brunette. Her face lit up as she reached for me and I knew we were to be the best of friends.

The mother, the little girl and I have gone to 12 such appointments in the last 20 months. On our most recent trip, as the mother loaded the brunette into the car, I heard the girl ask, “elephant come, please?” The mother had nearly forgotten me on the kitchen counter. The mother turned quickly to grab me as they headed out the door. It’s still dark as we made our way through the rain to the hospital.

With each treatment, the doctor has become more aggressive and the level of bruising following the procedure has increased. The mother refers to the brunette as looking a bit like a baby cheetah, covered in spots, but often speaks optimistically of the progress that has been made. I have even heard the mother say, she doesn’t want to look back with regret and wonder if they pursued all options but would rather know she had done everything she could today to give the little girl the best possible tomorrow.

Sitting on the brunettes lap, I wonder if anyone knows how much the mother worries about the little girl?

That night as the mother got the children ready for bed; they cannot seem to find where the brunette has left me. Normally the mother tries to get the brunette to leave me in her room during the day, but on surgery days she knows the little girl is more fragile and might need to snuggle more than normal. “Where is Mr. Elephant? We need to find him!” the mother calls out, and all the children scatter as if on a treasure hunt.

The blonde is the one to find me. I had been tucked away amidst some tea party accessories in the little play kitchen from a game we played earlier in the afternoon. Its not surprising the blonde would be the one to locate me as the children have given her the moniker, the finder, since she truly does posses above average sleuthing abilities.

The mother takes the brunette and I upstairs and reads us some stories. The brunette and I LOVE stories and as she tucks us into bed she kisses the little girl on the head and says, “goodnight honey….and goodnight Mr. Elephant” and before she walks out of the room, she pauses, smiles and shuts the door behind her, leaving the brunette and I alone in the crib.

I again look at the brunette in the darkness, and through the cheetah spots I watch her. Her little life is only just beginning. She loves her daddy. She challenges her mother. She adores her brother. She protects her little sister. She loves to stir up her older sister. She laughs often and believes she is very funny. She runs not walks everywhere she goes. She is thrilled by any interaction with animals. She shines brightest when she gets to play outside. She devours books. She is compassionate. She has a warrior’s spirit. She is a story yet to unfold and I….as the elephant in the room…am looking forward to seeing what will happen. I nudged closer to her side, and in the stillness, encompassed by the sound of ocean waves…we slept.

The Motherhood in Technicolor Memo: Children’s lives are like treasured books yet to be read. It’s only after they join your family that you discover they fill a void, a space you hadn’t even realized was missing. For truly the invisible red thread connects all souls destined to meet. Each child is a special gift most possessing a unique challenge we as parents must help them to navigate. As a mother I am becoming more and more convinced that amidst these obstacles, our children teach us way more about the world, ourselves and love than we will ever be able to teach them.

Author: Summer Smith

Summer Smith is a speaker, writer, and motherhood blogger. She and her family are currently navigating the suburbs of Northern Virginia. As the mother to four young children, Summer maintains her sanity thanks to her sense of humor, copious amounts of coffee, and Amazon Prime. Maya Angelou once said, when reflecting on her childhood, that her mother left an impression like technicolor stars in the midnight sky. Influenced by these words, Summer blogs at her website Motherhood in Technicolor, and can also be found on her Motherhood in Technicolor Facebook page.

Facebook