updating the construct

*

It all started a couple of weeks ago when my dear, brilliant friend M over at The Incipient Turvy wrote this incredible post. Have you met M? I can’t tell you how much I admire him. His writing is pure, unadulterated genius. Wait, I take that back. It’s deliciously adulterated genius. It’s genius M’d. It’s such genius that he may even convince you to read a little Proust. OK, maybe that was a stretch. But anyway, friends, meet M. M, meet friends. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s proceed, shall we?

As I was saying, M wrote this breathtaking post relating a conversation that he had recently with his doctor, to whom he refers on the blog as ‘the doctor’. See? I told you – genius. The post details the doctor telling M about a conversation she had with a mother and her teenage daughter with Asperger’s Syndrome. As it turns out, the mother’s perception of her daughter’s entire social experience is completely off base. Staggeringly, frightfully, heartbreakingly off base.

The post shook something loose inside of me that has been rattling around in there ever since. The doctor’s words nearly did me in:

“The mom…when she heard the daughter talking…reacted with genuine shock. She had described her daughter as ’shy’. As far as she was concerned, the daughter just lacked confidence. And you could tell that she had never really had a discussion about it. She mentioned that her daughter ‘never talked’…was ‘too shy to join in with others’. The mom had signed her daughter up for school clubs…church groups…band, and so on. Never saw her interact with others, just assumed she was anxious, hesitant. At first, when I asked the daughter questions, the mom repeatedly talked over her. Tried to answer for her. ‘I just think she has so much potential. If she’d just open up.’ Diplomatically, I had the mom not respond for a bit. And when the daughter began to describe school, analyze it …the mom was really stunned. Her jaw hit the floor. She said, ‘Doctor…I’ve never heard her talk this way before.’ She had no concept of her daughter’s internal life. You know…she basically viewed her as a shy little girl. Consequently, she could not see the alienated young woman. When she said, ‘I’ve never heard her talk this way before’, I felt like I was introducing two strangers. ‘Mom…I’d like you to meet someone…this is your daughter. This verbal, intelligent young woman.’ Quite a bit more going on there than shyness. Time to update the construct.”

It was those five last words –  Time to update the construct – that I just couldn’t shake.

A few days after reading the post, Matt and I were packed like sardines in the hallway outside of Darby’s classroom. With a slew of other parents and a smattering of siblings, we breathlessly awaited access to the Ms D’s 2nd Grade Classroom End of Year Extravaganza. There would be singing! There would be dancing! There would be snacks!

Periodically, the door would open and a little face would peer out, searching for Mom or Dad. Eventually, Darby’s was the little face at the door. She scanned the crowd and gave me a huge, gratifying grin when she saw me. She repeated it for Matt, but then she kept looking. Her brow furrowed and it became obvious that she wasn’t finding whatever or whomever she was seeking. “Mama,” she stage-whispered, “Where’s Kendall?”

“Oh, sweetie,” I began, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for Kenz to come up for this.”

Her face fell.

I looked around at all those parents and the smattering of siblings. I took in the already high noise level and then calculated the exponential leap that it would take when we ALL filed into the classroom. Twenty some-odd kids, one teacher, one aide, thirty or so parents and seven or so siblings and Oh Dear Lord, this wasn’t going to be pretty. But Darby wasn’t going to let it go easily.

“Mama, I really, really want her here. She should be here.”

Why do these moments always feel like Sophie’s Friggin Choice?

“Darb,” I tried to whisper (as we’d begun to be the most interesting thing happening in the hallway) “here’s the thing. This is YOUR show. And I know how important it is to you. And it might be really difficult for Kenz to handle. I’d hate to have anything disrupt this for you. What if I needed to walk her outside?”

“I understand,” she said, hanging her head as she retreated into the room.

I looked at Matt. “What the hell do we do?” I asked him. He shook his head ever so slightly. “I just don’t think she can handle this, hon. There’s a LOT going on here.”

I was about to agree when something clicked.

Time to update the construct.

 I suddenly heard myself saying, “I’ll bet she can handle a lot more than we think she can.” A fellow French speaking mom (wink, wink) standing next to me smiled knowingly as she said, “They usually can, can’t they?”

“Honey,” I asked, “Please go get Kendall. I think she can do this.”

Matt ran down for her and they came back in a flash. While they were gone, I was thinking it through, completely unconvinced that we had made the right choice. Forgive me, M – old constructs die hard. But then I thought about a year’s worth of sitting in a classroom. Of assemblies with the entire school. Of Darby’s show with her friend L. Of her own classroom’s show just a couple of days before. With decreasing levels of help, she’d made it through every damned one of them. By the time she and Matt returned I was thoroughly convinced she could do it.

I picked her up and told her that she’d be sitting on my lap. “NO!” she declared. “I will sit SEPARATE.”

Oh God. Not good.

The doors opened long before I could finesse her onto my lap. When we got in, the fate of our separate seating was sealed by the presence of a row of four tiny-people chairs set up perpendicular to the rest of the crowd. Really not good. I realized that, much like at Darby’s stage show, there would be no way for me to avoid her getting up in the middle. But the show was starting and I would have made a far bigger scene trying to move her than the one that I was hoping to avoid.

Darby and her classmates began to sing. Kendall sang along, sometimes appropriately, sometimes not, but never to the point of distraction. During one song, Kendall stood up to follow along and then stood again to take a bow with the kids. I hadn’t thought it was disruptive. Quite frankly, I thought it was pretty darn cute. It nearly broke my heart when Darby looked over and mouthed to me, “Oh well, I guess you were right.” But it didn’t happen again. From then on I was able to catch Kendall’s attention and get her to stay seated. She clapped when the crowd clapped, she sang when we were asked to sing along. She even danced with her sister when Darby chose her out of the crowd to join her for Jump Jim Joe.

When all was said and done, I asked Darby if she still felt that it was a mistake to bring her sister along. “No, Mama,” she said quietly, “I’m REALLY glad she was here.”

I stood there basking in gratitude for the incredibly well timed nudge from a friend to update the construct.

Hey, M? I’m REALLY glad you’re here.

Thank you.