The many facets of our ‘glass child’

One evening, my cellphone rang while my husband and I were watching television. When there was no response to my answer, I knew that our youngest child, Lilly, had butt-dialed me.

Lilly was a nurse on the night shift at the local hospital, and I could hear her interacting with patients and co-workers. I tried for several minutes to get her attention to no avail, then I began to eavesdrop.

I heard Lilly speaking calmly and kindly to a woman crying out in pain. Lilly attended to other patients, but returned to the woman later. “I’m so glad it’s you!” the woman cried, and I heard Lilly’s sweet voice putting her at ease. With an electronic “click,” the call ended abruptly.

Medical privacy violations aside, I’d been given a rare glimpse at the outcome of Lilly’s unique upbringing, and I was so proud. The youngest of our three children, Lilly had been a “glass child,” the term for the sibling of a child with special needs. These children feel “transparent” because their parents’ focus is on their needier siblings.

Despite our best intentions for our three children, Lilly was the one we ignored.

The pivotal moment that predetermined Lilly’s destiny happened long before she was born. In an Air Force pediatrician’s office at RAF Lakenheath, we were told, “Your son has autism.” Hayden, our firstborn, was 3 years old, and Anna had just been born. Francis and I were stunned.

In an instant, our expectations for our future changed drastically. We decided that, no matter what it cost or the impact it would have on Francis’ Navy career, we would provide what Hayden needed for his development.

Our family odyssey began. By the time Lilly came into the world, 2-year-old Anna and I were accustomed to revolving around Hayden’s treatment plan: a gluten-free, casein-free diet, weekly occupational therapy and physical therapy appointments, daily home “floor time” therapy sessions, school IEP meetings, doctor’s appointments, prescription vitamins and special playdates for socialization.

Sensing our stress, Anna seized control, demanding the role of “oldest daughter” with decision-making power. She gladly acted as a surrogate mother to Lilly, becoming her sister’s benevolent dictator, ally, protector and confidant.

A home movie I shot in 2002 on our front porch showed Hayden in one wicker chair, and Lilly and Anna in another munching pretzels. “She likes me,” Anna smiled from ear to ear, while slobbering Lilly looked up at her, adoringly.

Before Lilly could walk, I was a master of multitasking with Lilly perfectly content in a baby sling strapped to my torso. I fired up our gas-powered leaf blower, blasting leaves off our driveway. I grocery shopped, vacuumed and walked the dog. One late afternoon, our neighbor Bob made the mistake of opening our kitchen door, to find me nursing Lilly in the sling using one hand, while simultaneously chopping onions with a knife in the other.

Lilly was seemingly content being low-priority in our familial hierarchy. As she grew from baby to toddler, to school-aged child, to teenager, Lilly became known as the “happy-go-lucky” one in our otherwise attention-seeking family. We thought we’d discovered the key to parenting happy children — just ignore them!

We thought we were good parents for putting so much effort into Hayden’s development, and encouraging Anna and Lilly’s interdependency. We had no idea that Lilly would eventually feel pressure to be the people pleaser, and bury her fears when Anna left home for college.

Lilly hid her anxiety from us until her freshman year in college, when she could no longer cope with making her own decisions without her sister there to guide her. Lilly broke down and was diagnosed with panic disorder and depression.

For a few years, Francis and I made Lilly the priority, giving her the undivided attention she’d always needed. Through it all, Lilly learned to turn people-pleasing, unselfishness and empathy into a successful nursing career. And we learned that our Glass Child is not transparent at all — in fact, she is as multifaceted and beautiful as cut crystal, and her light shines through her facets in many brilliant colors.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com