***

When the dog bites, when the bee stings,

when I’m feeling sad,

I simply remember my favorite things,

and then I don’t feel so bad.

~ My favorite things

*

Darby walked in and sheepishly handed me a piece of paper. “I wrote a couple of lists,” she said. “I thought you’d like to see them. It was just some stuff I really had to say.”

I took the sheet from her and began to read.

I love math!

I love science!

I love art!

I love my family!

I love pink!

I love me!

I love cursive!

“Aw, that’s great Darb,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “And we love you too!”

“There’s some more on the other side,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Some stuff I don’t like at all.”

I turned it over and started reading.

I don’t like Dora.

I don’t like fevers.

I don’t like bullys.

I don’t like enemys.

I don’t like too much homework.

I don’t like too much rain.

I don’t lke autism.

I don’t like oily popcorn.

Aw, hell, baby. Mama’s right there with ya. All the way down to the oily popcorn.

***

Ed note .. Ok, so not to name names, but I know that there are a few restless natives out there who are eagerly awaiting the resolution to Thursday’s post. I promise it’s coming, April. (Oops, did that slip out?) There just weren’t enough hours in a day this weekend (are there ever?) to write a blessed thing, so I hope you’ll remain patient with me as I hobble it together.

~ The Management

*

I was waiting for Matt to get home with the girls from dance class. One day a week I get home before they do. It’s an odd feeling – being alone in my own house. For fifteen minutes every seven days I’m not completely certain what to do in the quiet.

As I often do, I wandered into the office and sat down at the desk. I logged onto the computer - ever my trusty anchor. The ringing phone startled me as it broke through the silence.

"Hello, Jessica," said neighborhoodgirl’smom. It struck me that she sounded very formal. Whenever anyone calls me by my full name I think I must be in trouble. "Matt left me a message saying that he’d like to come over and talk to me, but he didn’t say what it was about."

I tried to stall. The conversation that we had envisioned was in person, face to face. It was decidedly not supposed to happen on the phone.

"Oh, yes," I began, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "We were hoping perhaps we could come over and have a chat. I … um … well … yes … so … I was wondering when you might be available."

God, I was flailing. Why was I so nervous? I was sure my voice was shaking.

"Well, sure," she said, "But I’d like to ask what it’s about."

She was completely friendly, but of course she wanted to know what it was about. I mean, hell – it’s not like we call them regularly. I’d never even been inside their home, nor had I ever invited them into mine. Their daughter may be an infrequent play mate, but that doesn’t exactly make us close. For all she knew I was going to try to sell her a line of skin care products. I suddenly realized I didn’t know her husband’s name. I was beginning to panic.

The silence was getting increasingly uncomfortable, and no doubt for her part, making less and less sense. I decided I had no choice but to explain the reason for the call.

"Well," I began. "We hoped to talk to you about something that happened when yourdaughter was over here not long ago."

More silence as I gathered my thoughts. Where to go next?

"I’m not sure that we’ve ever really had a conversation about Kendall, but I was hoping that we could sit down together for a few minutes to talk. I don’t mean to sound evasive, but I guess I really hoped we could chat in person."

I danced around for a bit longer until she finally asked the one question that I couldn’t dodge. "What exactly happened that prompted this?"

I gave in and relayed what Darby had told me – that while at our house for a play date her daughter had said, "You know how Kendall’s so dumb?" I started spitting out the rehearsed lines that lingered in my head -

"I know she would never mean to be hurtful, but I’m sure you can imagine how difficult that was for Darby to hear and how hard it would have been for all of us had Kendall heard it."

"As we both know, kids will say things in the heat of the moment that certainly aren’t reflective of who they are."

"She’s a great kid and I don’t doubt that she meant no harm, but we thought this would be a good opportunity to open up the conversation a bit and hopefully help build a greater understanding."

I kept at it for a while, afraid to stop talking. Afraid to face her reaction. Afraid of the very real possibility that I’d be staring down a defensive Mama Bear who felt like she was under attack. I was waiting for the inevitable ‘My kid would never say that’. 

It didn’t come.

She was warm and open and sincerely apologetic. "I’d like to talk to her and find out what she possibly could have meant to say," she said. "She’s a good girl and I know she could never have said it maliciously."

I agreed just a little too heartily.

"But I apologize profusely on her behalf," she went on. "I can only imagine how hard this must have been. Please know how sorry I am for the pain this has caused your family."

I nearly dissolved into a puddle. "Oh, Neighborhoodgirl’smom," I said. "I certainly accept and truly appreciate your apology. I can’t tell you how much. But I hope you know that wasn’t why I was calling. I don’t want to be getting yourdaughter into trouble. I’m just hoping this can create an opportunity for all of us to come together and better understand one another."

She couldn’t have been more receptive. She couldn’t have been more open and generous and eager to understand. She asked about Kendall’s diagnosis and we talked a bit about what it meant.

"I’d still like to have you or you and Matt come over," she said. "I’d really like to hear your ideas on how we can talk to all three of our children about this."

I, um, hmm. Me? Matt? What the heck do we know? For heaven’s sake it took us  three e-mails, two phone messages, two outside consultations, and five actual conversations just to figure out how to make THIS phone call!

"Of course," I said, forcibly silencing the doubt squad in my head. "We’d be delighted."

We hung up the phone with a promise to solidify plans for the following week. I was shaking. Matt rang just moments later and thought the house was on fire when he heard my voice. "Hon, you OK?" he asked.

"Oh my God, I just had THE CONVERSATION with neighborhoodgirl’smom!"

"Oh no," he said, obviously on edge. "Did it not go well?"

I narrowly avoided tears as I squeaked out, "No, it was wonderful. And she asked us to come over and talk to them. She wants us to tell her how to talk to ALL OF THEIR KIDS. So now we have to figure out how the hell to do THAT."

"Well then," said my dear, indefatigable husband, "that’s exactly what we’ll do."

To be continued …

*

I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, “Mother, what was war?”

~Eve Merriam

“So Darby,” I said. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

“Umm. Hmm. Oy yeah, it’s Veteran’s Day!”

“Yes, baby. Do you know what that means?”

“It means no school! Hooray!”

“Well, yes, little love. It does. But it’s far more than that. Do you now WHY there’s no school on Veteran’s Day?”

She scrunched her little nose – that signature Mama move, now so much more hers than mine.

“Baby, Veteran’s Day is a day to honor those who have fought for our country. A day to stop and say thank you to the brave men and women who have sacrificed so much to protect us and to keep us safe.”

“Oh yeah! Like Uncle Paul. I told my friends at school that I know a soldier in Afghanistan, Mama. I told them he was like family because he’s one of my mom and dad’s best friends.”

“That’s right, love. And don’t forget Rhema and Hope’s Daddy. He’s over there too.”

Her face got very serious. “That’s right, Mama. He’s there too. In Iraq.”

To those of you still fighting, our hearts and our prayers are with you. Be safe. Come home soon. Know that our love stretches across the seas and over the mountains and through the desert sands to reach you.

To your families we say, ‘You are not alone. If you don’t tell us what you need we’ll figure it out for ourselves and show up on your doorstep. We simply refuse to let you go this alone.”

To those who have lost everything - There are no words to honor your sacrifice. All we can share is our overwhelming sorrow and gratitude.

To the wounded – to men and women like Jeremy, whose biggest fight may be the one that comes after the war – know that we will never be able to repay you, but we will try.

“Mama,” Darby said later. “I’m sad for the soldiers. I wish they could come home.”

Me too, my little love. Me too.

*

Kendall and I stood in the upstairs guest room among the assorted detritus of babyhood. We sifted through long since cast aside quilted books and soft, worn rattles in a desperate search for a long-lost Elmo doll.

Kendall picked up a flimsy nylon tutu that had fallen out of a box and stepped into it. Amid all of the souvenirs of years past up there –  the first toys, the early books of colors and shapes, the gifts from friends and family – I never would have given the tutu a second thought. In and of itself it had no significance to me. It likely would have been one of the first candidates for a trip to Goodwill.

Kendall spun around in the tutu and said, “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

I looked up from the bin through which I was digging. “What’s that, honey?”

“I cried and I cried and I cried,” she said again.

I must have looked confused, but she wasn’t looking at me. Even if she had been, she wouldn’t have picked up on the nuance of my expression.

“I wanted my ballet slippers,” she said, still spinning, “and I cried and I cried and I cried.”

ed note .. please follow the link above before reading on. It’s important. Please? I’m asking nicely. Click on it. Read it. The rest of the story is meaningless without it.

I stopped in my tracks. There are so many moments with my little girl that literally take my breath away that I know I must lose credibility when I use the phrase. But, for the millionth time in our life together, she did indeed take my breath away.

“Honey,” I heard myself say before I could stop to think about the words, “I am so, so sorry that I yelled at you that day. I just didn’t understand.”

She kept spinning.

“I cried and I cried and I cried,” she said. “And then I had the white water and it made my tummy feel better.”

White water? I scanned my memory, but came up dry. Mine is obviously no match for hers. If she says there was white water, there must have been white water.

“Milk, honey?” I asked. “Did you have milk that day?”

“I had the white water and it made my tummy feel better.”

She picked up a Zoe book from a nearby bin and began to read the single words on its pages. The conversation was over.

I took a deep breath and resumed the search for Elmo, digging through bin after bin of stuffed animals. Kendall suddenly hit the floor. She was crouched into a defensive ball, covering her ears with her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. She yelled into her knees, “NO COOKIE MONSTER!“

I looked down at my hands. I had picked up the leg of ‘Blueberry the blue bear’ to see if Elmo might be hanging out below him. Apparently the blue leg had looked to her like it belonged to a certain cookie loving ball of terror. The last time she had seen Cookie Monster had been in this room. Three years ago. I assured her there was no Cookie Monster. We went through it all again - Cookie Monster doesn’t live here anymore. He’s all gone. You’re O.K.

When children have traumatic experiences, parents often make each other feel better by assuring one another that it’s harder on us than it is on them. We tell each other that they’ll never even remember it as they get older. Over the years, I’ve tried to find solace in those platitudes, but something down deep just wouldn’t let me believe in them when it came to Kendall. The little voice has always told me that it’s not that she won’t remember, it’s that she’ll never forget.

Giving up on finding Elmo upstairs, we made our way back down to Kendall’s room. I brought the Zoe book downstairs with us and at the last second I grabbed the tutu and brought it down too. As much as I may have wanted to leave it behind, bringing it along felt like the right thing to do. When we got into Kendall’s room, I held it out to her and asked if she wanted to put it on.

I sat on her floor and watched her get into it. I stayed put as she went into her closet to find some sparkly princess shoes. Shoes on, she turned to me. “What is this?” she asked, holding the tutu between her fingers.

“That’s a tutu, honey,” I said. “You had it when you were little.”

She walked over and stood directly in front of me. I looked up at her from my spot on the floor.

“And you’re sorry that you yelled at me.”

“Yes, baby,” I answered. “I am so sorry that I yelled at you.”

I didn’t try to hide the tears that streamed down my face. Maybe I thought somehow they would help her to understand just how sorry I really am.

She looked right at me. I still get taken aback when I see her full face that way – dead on. Her eyes searched my face, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m crying, honey,” I answered.

“What did you hurt?”

“Well,” I began, “I didn’t really hurt anything, baby. I’m feeling a little sad.”

“Did you hurt your heart?” she asked.

I said that to her once when Darby was crying after her fish died. Kendall had been determined to know what she had hurt. She wouldn’t let it go. If she was crying, she must have hurt something. Did she hurt her arm? Did she hurt her eye? Did she hurt her tushy? Did she hurt her head? There was no end in sight and Darby needed my attention. I had finally come up with “Well, honey, she hurt her heart.”

And there it was right back at me. I must have hurt my heart.

“You know, honey,” I said, “In a way I guess I did hurt my heart. I’m sad because I’m so sorry about the day that you couldn’t find your ballet shoes.”

She began to walk away. She circled the room slowly. I sat and waited. Suddenly, with no warning she pounced into my lap. She curled her little body into me and threw her arms around my neck. I hugged her back as hard as I could. Just as quickly as she had pounced, she got up and left the room.

I’ve always wondered if someday Kendall and  I will sit down together and read through the posts that I’ve written about all of these moments in her childhood (and my motherhood). So many times I’ve hoped that she will someday fill in the missing narrative – HERS. At times I’ve also been terrified that she will do just that, not sure that I can handle it. But overwhelmingly, I pray that day comes. And more and more, I think it will.

Because it seems that the little voice – the voice that says, She’s taking it all in. She’s engaging her environment even when we think she’s not. She’s remembering. She’s watching.  She knows. She sees. That voice is right. And so too I think it’s right when it says, She’ll never forget.

She’ll know it wasn’t easy. She’ll know her Mama made mistakes. She’ll know I couldn’t always protect her, no matter how much I may have wanted to. But I hope and I pray that when she looks back over it all she’ll know more than anything that I tried. That I did everything I could think to do to understand her, to help her, and – above all – to love her. And that she will know deep down that for those times that I stumbled – when try as I might I just didn’t get it – that I am so, so sorry.

.

“Well, I’m about as tall as a shotgun and just as noisy.”

~ Truman Capote

As I walked out of the girls’ school last Friday, the third graders were just returning from their field trip. I was surprised when a teacher that I don’t know particularly well stopped me in my tracks.

She leaned in conspiratorially as she said, “Can I tell you a story?”

I tried to gauge the look on her face. Her friendly smile offered no clues as to whether or not this would be the kind of story that I could handle in my present state or whether it might well be the kind that would reduce me to a simpering puddle right there on the sidewalk.

I’m fairly certain that I nodded.

She explained that she had seen me earlier in the day and had assumed that I would be chaperoning the field trip. When she realized that I wasn’t with them, she’d mentioned to Darby that she’d thought I’d be coming along.

“So, Darb,” she’d said, “Where’s your mom? I thought I saw her at school this morning.”

“You did,” Darby had answered. “She’s helping out in my sister’s class today. My dad’s coming on the field trip.”

“Oh,that’s nice,” said the teacher. “Which sister?”

She told me that Darby had looked confused. “What do you mean ‘which sister?’” she’d asked. “I only have one.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” the teacher said. “I always thought you had two.”

And my older daughter – my sweet, loving, affectionate little girl – looked her right in the eye and said, “Oh, you’re probably thinking of my mom. She’s just really short.”

*

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.

~ William Shakespeare

*

Matt had put himself in a bind. He’d volunteered to chaperone Darby’s field trip (starts with ‘A’, rhymes with Barboretum) and without realizing the overlap, he’d also committed to help with a Halloween themed project in Kendall’s classroom at the exact same time. I was thrilled for the excuse to bail him out. Oh dear, what shall I do? Looks like I may just HAVE to sneak out of work early that day and help out. *wink, wink, sigh *

I couldn’t have been happier as I set up shop with two other moms in Kendall’s classroom. We were each charged with leading a Pumpkin Math station.

One was an observation station where the children observed various types of pumpkins and gourds and then recorded their observations. One (mine) was a counting station where the kids took a stab at estimating how many seeds had come out of the pumpkin and then sorted them into groups of ten and counted them out together. We then compared their estimates to the actual results and tallied up how many friends had guessed too high, too low and just right. The third was a weighing station where they estimated the pumpkin’s weight and compared it to other objects around the room.

We set up our individual stations while the kids were out at recess and I was nearly vibrating with excitement by the time they came back in.

The kids were adorable. They were chatty and friendly and silly and sneaky and eager to touch and feel and smell and explore everything around them. They guessed everything from 100 to 2000 seeds and grew wide eyed as we counted them out. Every one of them wanted to reach into the pumpkin, eager to dig right into what they were learning. It was heady stuff, watching them drink it all in.

Kendall’s group came over in the second rotation. I watched her with her aide, our spectacular Miss N. I started out just as I had with the last group, by showing them the pumpkin and asking them what they thought had been inside of it. Kids shouted answers over each other and we sorted through the noise as I called on one child at a time. Kendall fidgeted and looked around. I asked the kids if they knew what ‘estimate’ means. Two little hands shot up in the air. I looked over at Kenz. She was playing with the counting cards in front of her. I called on one little boy who looked like he might just burst if he didn’t get to say, ‘A really good guess!’ Miss N kept Kenz on track as we moved along and the kids wrote their estimates on their worksheets.

Things were moving fast. I was under the gun to get through the lesson in the alloted twenty minutes. I knew Kendall would need help – a lot of help –  following what was going on around her, but this time it wasn’t my job. It was all on Miss N. She kept her moving, feeding her numbers and helping her figure out what to write on her page.

On the last rotation, the teacher came over to relieve me so that I could follow Kendall’s group. I caught up to them at the observation table where Kendall was sitting in front of a miniature pumpkin. Miss N was prompting her with questions. “Kendall, what shape is the pumpkin?” she asked.

Kendall answered, “Orange.”

“It is orange, Kendall,” said Miss N patiently. “That’s its color. Can you tell me what SHAPE it is?”

I drifted into some of the other bits and pieces of conversation around the table.

“What’s that word for figuring out the size of something round? Excuse me, Ms F, do you know if it’s the circumference or the radius that tells you how big it is? Are we going to measure these? Do we have rulers?”

“Mine is a funny shape. It looks like it’s having a baby! Tee hee!”

“This one’s not a pumpkin. It’s a squash. Or is it a gourd? Um, is this a gourd? I have to write that down. How do you spell gourd?”

And then I focused back in on my girl.

“Kendall, can you tell me what shape it is?”

“A circle.”

“Good job! Let’s write that down now.”

She set to writing the letters, one at a time. Miss N had set up her notebook in front of her like an easel to make it easier to write. She began to write her first letter – a ‘T”. She started in the wrong spot and Miss N gently pointed out where she needed to be, drawing a smiley face on the page as a guide. She handed her a pink eraser and Kendall erased her ‘T”. Over and over and over again, Kendall would write, erase and write again. Miss N would let her go for a while, allowing her to get the thought out, but eventually she’d have to remind her what she needed to do. Finally – FINALLY – she had a five word sentence on the page.

‘The pumpkin is a circle.”

She fussed and said that she was done. Hell, I’d be done too. Miss N calmly said that she needed to write just one more thing about the pumpkin. “What color is the pumpkin, Kendall?”

The kids around us were still chattering excitedly about their gourds and squashes.

“This one’s really bumpy! Check it out; it’s like it has a diseeeeeease! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“It’s orange.”

“That’s right. Good job, Kendall. So let’s write that down.”

Kendall looked exhausted.

After stealing a good long hug, I left with the other moms. I met Matt outside and we scurried off to enjoy a couple of precious hours before pick-up. On impulse, we decided to head into town for lunch.

We sat down in a lovely little Italian place off the town green. I smoothed the white cotton tablecloth as I ordered a very grown-up sounding meal. I took a deep breath and sat back in my chair. And then it happened.

In the middle of the day, in a particularly civilized little dining room surrounded by older couples and ladies-who-lunch, the storm came. I didn’t recognize it at first. It’s been a long time since it’s been around. But it was undeniable. It wasn’t any of the usual suspects. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t frustration or heaviness or weariness. It wasn’t anxiety or even fear.

It was rage.

Suddenly and without warning, I was choking on the silent scream of impotent rage. For a fraction of a second, I couldn’t see. The room went dark and the air disappeared. I couldn’t move. I had this strange thought afterwards – that I’d wanted to flip the table. Just stand up and turn it over. To cause upheaval, commotion, noise. But as in a slow motion nightmare, I was paralyzed.

Just as quickly as it had come, it passed. The only remnants were the tears on my face and the tension in every muscle in my body. I felt like I’d been in a car wreck.

I get sad. I do. I get sad and I get tired. I get frustrated and weary. But until that day, I guess I hadn’t gotten angry in a really long time. That day, I was ANGRY.

I was ANGRY that my girl has to work so God damned hard to do what seems to come so easily for everyone else. I was ANGRY that she is trying to figure out the difference between a color and a shape when everyone around her is talking about radius and circumference. I was ANGRY that she has to write and erase and write and erase to get one God damned word on a page. I was ANGRY that she has to puzzle through every single interaction that is somehow so natural for everyone around her. I was ANGRY that she has to struggle to keep up with a world whose pace and focus are so completely different from hers. I was ANGRY that every little thing is so God damned hard for her.

Why my girl?

Why my baby?

Why anyone’s baby?

Just why?

The clouds passed that day, but they’re still close. And I can’t get past this sinking feeling that they’re not really gone. No – if I had to put money on it, I’d say I’m standing smack in the eye of the storm.

***

I wonder ~

Do you know that I sneak into your room to watch you sleep, secretly hoping that you might wake up, even for a second?

When you do wake up and I’m not here, do you wonder where I am?

Do you understand why Mama has to go to work, baby?

Do you know that it kills me to leave?

Do you know that my heart breaks every single time I get into the car and drive away?

Do you know that I think of you every moment of every day?

Do you know how desperately I want to restructure your world – to make it less hostile, less foreign?

Do you know how hard I try to make things easier for you?

Do you know that I would give my right arm to take away your fears?

Do you know that I carry your worries with me? That I flinch when a baby cries even when you’re not in the room? That I wish that somehow that helped?

Do you know that there is nothing, NOTHING that I wouldn’t do to ensure your safety and happiness?

Do you know that it cuts me to the core when you say, Don’t touch me! even as I burst with pride that you finally have the words to say it?

Do you know how grateful I am for those hit-and-run hugs that come at me with all the force of the universe, even if they end just as abruptly as they start?

Do you know that your laughter has the power to heal?

Do you have any idea how much you’ve changed me?

Or how grateful I am to have been changed?

Do you know how many people are rooting for you? How many people cheer your victories and hold you in their hearts when you stumble?

Do you know that you are smart as a whip?

Do you know that you have autism?

Does that strange word that we use mean anything to you?

Does it help to know that there’s a name for the things that you struggle with? That you are not alone in those struggles?

Do you know that as you grow up there will be an army of people out there with similar experiences?

Will you want to find them?

Will you take comfort in their friendship?

Will you find pride in being different or will you choose to try to blend in?

Or both?

Do you know that as long as you can make that decision for yourself, I will feel as though Daddy and I succeeded?

Do you know that I envy you your complete lack of pretense?

Do you know that you are the most authentic person I’ve ever met?

Do you know that you make the world better, simply by being who you are?

Do you know that you touch hearts and change minds and bring everyone around you to a higher place?

Do you know that I have already learned far more from you than I will ever teach you?

Do you know how proud I am to be your Mama?

***

I love you, baby – with every fiber of my being.

Don’t worry about the rest of it.

That’s all you need to know.

*

“Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase; just take the first step.”

~ Martin Luther King Jr

*

In our first official act, the Inclusion Committee has established a column in our school’s newsletter. OK, so I carved it out of the Parent’s Advisory Council Liaison’s column. Which wasn’t that hard to do because I’m the Parents Advisory Council Liaison and it was my column. But stay with me, folks. I’m building to something here.

Have you heard about the Inclusion Committee?

30 members strong and growing, the Inclusion Committee is a wonderful and dynamic mix of parents, teachers and staff members. The committee works to raise awareness about what it means to be an inclusive community and how each of us can play a role in fostering an environment of tolerance, compassion and understanding for all.

We are already working on the planning for our school-wide celebration of Inclusive Schools Week in December. Volunteers are welcome! Contact Jess Wilson at (my e-mail) for more details.

On the day that we started this thing, I was chatting back and forth with my friend (and first official volunteer!), Deb via e-mail. During that exchange, she wrote something to me that simply begged to be shared. It was an emotional plea, a call to action and an instruction manual all in one. It started with the words, ‘Here’s what I want to say to parents”.

And it sparked an idea.

Your submissions wanted!!!

We are thrilled to announce a new format for our little space here in the Newsletter. We want to hear from you! We will be highlighting submissions from the entire school community that answer one of two questions:  

What does inclusion mean to you?

OR

What would you like your community to know?

We are seeking submissions from parents, students, teachers and staff. By definition, inclusion INCLUDES all of us!!

Please send your submissions via e-mail to (my e-mail) with ‘newsletter’ in the subject line. Due to limited space, some submissions may not be published, but please don’t be discouraged. We will do our best!

And now, without further adieu .. our first submission comes from a parent of three (of our school’s) students and answers the question What would you like your community to know? 

***

Think back to when you were in elementary school. Everyone can remember that one kid … the awkward one … the one who may have talked differently, or looked different, or had unusual habits. And everyone can remember at least one time either watching or even participating in a moment of unkindness, or excluding, or giggling, or just avoidance.

None of us could know then what a parent’s love for a child felt like. Imagine how the parents of that child from elementary school felt seeing their baby being treated poorly by peers. Think of the pain and isolation of not only the child, but of the parents as well – neighbors, even friends.

Well there are many more kids with “differences” now. There is NO ONE whose child is not affected. If you are not the parent of a child with “differences” you are absolutely the parent of a child who has classmates with “differences”.  The teachers can not be role models of compassion in a vacuum.  Fear of differences is powerful.

If an invitation to a birthday party or a play date feels too big … start with a simple conversation. Start with asking your child to give someone outside of their circle of friends a turn in their game, extend a compliment, a gesture or even a smile.

Just start.

I told you it begged to be shared.

“Stupid is a SAD word. Dumb is kinda like saying STUPID.”

~ Kendall Wilson

***

Darby had asked me to come into her room “to talk for just a moment, Mama”. A moment quickly gave way to an hour. Little Miss didn’t need to talk, she needed to TALK.

***

“Like when I have play dates over who don’t really know maybe, and they look at Kendall with that ’she’s so WEIRD’ look. You know that look, Mama? The ‘why is she so WEIRD’ look? Or like when neighborhood girl was over and she said, ‘You know how your sister is so dumb?’”

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Don’t let her see it.

“You didn’t tell me about this, honey. What did she say exactly?”

“Well, we were playing and she just said, ‘You know how your sister is so dumb?”

Damn it, I was so hoping I’d misheard. I was praying she was going to say, “You know how your sister pits her plumb? … hits her drum? … sucks her thumb?” Anything but that. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

“So what did you say, love?”

“I told her that she’s NOT dumb at all. That she’s actually really, really smart and that if she said stuff like that ever again she couldn’t be my friend.”

We talked for a long, long time. I gave her some words that she might be able to use next time. My sister’s brain works differently than yours and mine, but that doesn’t mean she’s not smart. It just means that some things can be more challenging for her. We spent a lot of time detailing Kendall’s challenges and talking about the strengths that are actually wrapped inside each and every one of them. She started repeating them back to me.

“Ooh, like how she can repeat anything just like she heard it – what’s that word for it, Mama?”

“Echolalia, baby.”

“Right, echolalia. It may seem like it’s not good now, but when she speaks Spanish like Dora it sounds just like someone who grew up speaking Spanish instead of like us which sounds like, well, you know, someone who is just trying to speak Spanish.”

“Exactly, love. Exactly.”

And I tried to drive home the fact that she didn’t have to have those kinds of conversations alone. I told her that Daddy and I would always be there to help.

“But, Mama”, she said. “I DO have to handle it alone. I mean, maybe I don’t really, but I’m just telling you, that’s what it FEELS like.”

“Oh, honey, I know,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. She’s the one reporting back from the front lines. We’re just sitting safely inside HQ drinking coffee and talking strategy. What the hell do we know? “I know it feels like you have to do an awful lot by yourself. I understand completely why you feel that way. But please, please know that you have a lot of people who can help.”

I ran through a list of people at school. The social worker that she adores, her teacher, the inclusion facilitator – the wide and caring and wonderful network of people who can HELP. And I came back again to me and Matt.

Matt and I talked that night and into the next morning. We agreed that we needed to talk with neighborhood girl’s mom. It then took us three e-mails, two phone messages, two outside consultations and five actual conversations before we decided how we wanted to handle it. “I need to ask your help” is the approach we decided on. “I’m sure you can imagine how hurtful those words would have been to Kendall had she heard them and how hard they were for Darby to hear. We’re sure she didn’t mean to be hurtful, but children can say some difficult things when they don’t fully understand a situation.”

It took a night’s sleep and lot of restraint to get to that point. “I need your help” was NOT our first reaction. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to be hurtful” sure as hell wasn’t mine.

The next morning, Darby hung out with me while I showered, as she so often does. “Hey, Darb,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I talked to Daddy last night and we both feel that its important for us to have a conversation with neighbor girl’s mom, OK?”

She nodded and said, “Yeah, I understand.”

I called the school social worker first thing in the morning. She was wonderful. “I’ll pop in and give her my schedule so she’ll always know where she can find me,” she said. She promised to make it seem like something she had already been planning to do as a matter of course.

I tried to push it out of my mind for a while.

I worked on the notes from our first inclusion committee meeting. I looked at the words on the screen that described the meeting for those who hadn’t been able to come.

We each talked a bit about what inclusion means to us – from honoring and respecting every individual’s contribution to the community to celebrating one another’s unique strengths and making the effort to look beyond the surface and to really get to know one another and understand each other’s stories. We talked about learning from one another, creating an environment in which every member of the community feels welcomed and empowered. It was a thought-provoking exchange and hopefully the first of many.

I organized some of the ideas that had come from our brainstorming session. I looked them over with a new sense of urgency. This stuff matters. It will make a difference. It has to.

I was grateful that we had already designated Sunday Darby Day – the yearly celebration of all things Darby. Not her birthday, not a holiday, simply Darby Day. The one day a year upon which the entire Wilson clan is subject to the whim and wish of little Miss Darby Delicious. She’d been tweaking the schedule all week long ahead of the big day.

~ Wake-up when I get up. Even if it’s before 6:45, I can go in to your room, and you can’t say it’s too early cause it’s DARBY DAY!

~ Cuddle time – with no books and no shows – just CUDDLES!

~ Breakfast – decorate-your-own-pancake bar (NOT THE FROZEN PANCAKES, Mama – HOME MADE ‘REAL’ PANCAKES with icing and chocolate chips and pink sugar and you can’t say that’s gross and no way can I have that stuff for breakfast cause it’s DARBY DAY!

And on it went …

And thank God for all of it. For things to DO, a difference to make, the things to look forward to – and for knowing that we would soon be celebrating Darby in all her Darbiest glory.

Because otherwise I might have drowned in the thought that it took two adults – two adults who are steeped in sensitivity, two adults with a pretty decent grasp of human interaction, two adults with a lifetime of experience  -  three e-mails, two phone messages, two outside consultations, and five actual conversations to figure out how to handle what my 8 1/2 year old deals with on the fly EVERY SINGLE day.

These kids are carrying

an

awful

lot

of

weight.