I see them everywhere. Forever etched into my mind as adolescents, it is a bit of a shock when I see them in their adult form. Full-fledged grown-ups, just like me.
The woman behind me in line at the grocery store, an old friend from middle school. The friendship ended badly, over something petty that I no longer remember. We both avert our eyes, not wanting to call attention to the painful details of our shared past.
The gas station attendant who fixed my car, a boy mercilessly bullied throughout his teenage years. A speech impediment continues to plague him. I wonder if memories of being on the receiving end of countless wedgies in the boys' bathroom continue to haunt him. I thank him for his help and quickly leave.
The woman manning a craft table at our hometown fall festival, former arch rival from elementary school. I turn the other way and all but sprint in the opposite direction. A nasty child surely grown into a nasty adult, someone I do not care to associate with.
I see them everywhere. And I know they see me too. Yet, we say nothing. Maybe someday we will outgrow those old hurts and find the courage to start anew.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
11.14.2008
1.19.2008
The Dawning of Self-Awareness
The scowl and furrowed brows warned me that trouble was afoot. The question came in fragments, indicative of her continued struggle with language, "Why I.... why doos... why have... a Mr. Joe at my school?" I answered this question easily enough, that Mr. Joe helped her learn how to talk, how to use her words. Her reply was blunt. "No. Need. Help."
The next question came in quick succession, so quickly that it caught me off-guard. "Why Annie not have a Mr. Joe at her school?" I faltered, stumbled over my words. Everyone is different, I told her. Everyone is good at something but may need help with another thing. You are a good reader and know how to count to 100. You just need a little bit of help with using your words. Annie is a good dancer, but she needs a little bit of help walking up the stairs.
She remained silent in response to my imperfect explanation, and I did not press the issue further. When the time is right, she will bring up the subject again. And I hope that next time I will find the words to tell her that despite our differences, we are all the same. And that differences are okay. Same but different, different but same.
The next question came in quick succession, so quickly that it caught me off-guard. "Why Annie not have a Mr. Joe at her school?" I faltered, stumbled over my words. Everyone is different, I told her. Everyone is good at something but may need help with another thing. You are a good reader and know how to count to 100. You just need a little bit of help with using your words. Annie is a good dancer, but she needs a little bit of help walking up the stairs.
She remained silent in response to my imperfect explanation, and I did not press the issue further. When the time is right, she will bring up the subject again. And I hope that next time I will find the words to tell her that despite our differences, we are all the same. And that differences are okay. Same but different, different but same.
11.29.2007
Life According to Kate
When I was 1, I didn't have no teeth.
When I was 2, Annie was zero.
When I was 3, I get a Honda Odyssey.
When I was 4, I goed to Disney.
When I 5, I get a lost tooth.
When I 6, I ride the bus.
When I 7, I will whistle.
When I 8, I will do ju-nastics. (translation-gymnastics)
When I 9, I will get a really lot of lost tooth.
When I 10, I will go on stage.
When I 11, I will play soccer.
When I 12, I climb a tree.
When I 13, I will wear a bra.
When I 14, I take a shower.
When I 15, I will climb on things.
When I 16, I will poop on the potty.
When I 17, I go on bigger rides.
When I 18, I get a bathroom in my room.
When I was 2, Annie was zero.
When I was 3, I get a Honda Odyssey.
When I was 4, I goed to Disney.
When I 5, I get a lost tooth.
When I 6, I ride the bus.
When I 7, I will whistle.
When I 8, I will do ju-nastics. (translation-gymnastics)
When I 9, I will get a really lot of lost tooth.
When I 10, I will go on stage.
When I 11, I will play soccer.
When I 12, I climb a tree.
When I 13, I will wear a bra.
When I 14, I take a shower.
When I 15, I will climb on things.
When I 16, I will poop on the potty.
When I 17, I go on bigger rides.
When I 18, I get a bathroom in my room.
When I get a mommy, I ride in the front.
When I 98, Annie beed 96.
When I 100, I beed really big.
11.08.2007
Buckle Up
For quite some time now Kate has been buckling herself into her car seat. Having expressed the desire to be a big girl and buckle herself in, I allowed her to do so. This skill was a source of pride for her, something she could do without my help. And so the routine of climbing into the car countless times each day and fastening her restraints became, well, routine. Automatic. Never a power struggle. Something she did as naturally as blinking. Until one day.
Kate climbed into the car after school and dutifully arranged herself in her car seat. I proceeded to pull away, assuming she was properly restrained. I glanced in the rear view mirror only to see her sprawled across her seat sideways. Unable to pull over, I demanded that she buckle herself in at once.
"What will happen?" she asked curiously.
Well, honey, if I were to slam into another vehicle, the simple laws of physics dictate that you would continue to move at the rate of speed at which I was traveling, at which point you would be ejected from our vehicle through the glass windshield, causing catastrophic, most likely fatal damage. Basically, you would be killed upon impact.
"You would get very hurt," I answered, without going into any detail.
My answer further piqued her interest. "Will my eyeballs fall out?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes."
Click.
No problems since that conversation.
Kate climbed into the car after school and dutifully arranged herself in her car seat. I proceeded to pull away, assuming she was properly restrained. I glanced in the rear view mirror only to see her sprawled across her seat sideways. Unable to pull over, I demanded that she buckle herself in at once.
"What will happen?" she asked curiously.
Well, honey, if I were to slam into another vehicle, the simple laws of physics dictate that you would continue to move at the rate of speed at which I was traveling, at which point you would be ejected from our vehicle through the glass windshield, causing catastrophic, most likely fatal damage. Basically, you would be killed upon impact.
"You would get very hurt," I answered, without going into any detail.
My answer further piqued her interest. "Will my eyeballs fall out?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes."
Click.
No problems since that conversation.
11.07.2007
A Memory from Long Ago
"Remember I was 3, and I cry at Miss Marci's?" Kate said to me recently while driving to school.
Do I remember? How could I forget?
The summer before Kate was to start preschool, we enrolled her in a social skills group for children on the spectrum with the hope of combating her habit of screaming and throwing herself on the floor. The group was run by Marci, a licensed psychologist and movement therapist. Every Wednesday evening that summer we would drive 45 minutes for Kate to "participate" in this group. I say "participate" because Kate would spend the entire session rolling around on the floor, alternating between screaming and crying. Eventually, though, Marci was able to woo Kate through music and dance. By the end of that summer, Kate was a willing and happy participant, following Marci's directions and interacting a little bit with the other children.
"Yes, I remember," I replied.
"I cry a lot," she added.
Sensing that Kate was interested in having this conversation, I probed a bit further, hoping she wouldn't shut down, which often happens when she feels pressured. "You did cry a lot. Why did you cry at Miss Marci's?"
"I wanted you, Mom."
Those words made me want to turn the clock back two years, pick up that screaming toddler, and hold her close to my heart. Those screams weren't about non-compliance or defiance. Those screams were simply a little girl telling everyone she just wanted her mommy.
Do I remember? How could I forget?
The summer before Kate was to start preschool, we enrolled her in a social skills group for children on the spectrum with the hope of combating her habit of screaming and throwing herself on the floor. The group was run by Marci, a licensed psychologist and movement therapist. Every Wednesday evening that summer we would drive 45 minutes for Kate to "participate" in this group. I say "participate" because Kate would spend the entire session rolling around on the floor, alternating between screaming and crying. Eventually, though, Marci was able to woo Kate through music and dance. By the end of that summer, Kate was a willing and happy participant, following Marci's directions and interacting a little bit with the other children.
"Yes, I remember," I replied.
"I cry a lot," she added.
Sensing that Kate was interested in having this conversation, I probed a bit further, hoping she wouldn't shut down, which often happens when she feels pressured. "You did cry a lot. Why did you cry at Miss Marci's?"
"I wanted you, Mom."
Those words made me want to turn the clock back two years, pick up that screaming toddler, and hold her close to my heart. Those screams weren't about non-compliance or defiance. Those screams were simply a little girl telling everyone she just wanted her mommy.
10.16.2007
Friendship
"Kate, are you my friend?" asked a little girl in Kate's prekindergarten class.
"Yes," Kate responded promptly.
"Kate, are you my friend?" the little girl persisted.
"Yes," Kate repeated.
"Kate, are you my friend and nobody else's friend? My best friend?" the little girl asked.
Kate gave her a puzzled look, not understanding the exclusion that goes along with being a best friend. "I friends with everybody. All everybody are friends," Kate answered.
Satisfied with her answer, the little girl took Kate's hand and the two of them bounced toward the playground. Friends.
"Yes," Kate responded promptly.
"Kate, are you my friend?" the little girl persisted.
"Yes," Kate repeated.
"Kate, are you my friend and nobody else's friend? My best friend?" the little girl asked.
Kate gave her a puzzled look, not understanding the exclusion that goes along with being a best friend. "I friends with everybody. All everybody are friends," Kate answered.
Satisfied with her answer, the little girl took Kate's hand and the two of them bounced toward the playground. Friends.
9.20.2007
A First First Day
Last week marked an important milestone in Annie's young life- her very first first day of school. We enrolled her in a nursery school in town that touts its program to be "a loving and gentle first school experience for three year-olds". It is your typical nursery school, complete with cheerful, sweet women who just ooze enthusiasm and speak in the same lilting sing-songy voice to children and adults alike. It really is lovely.
Annie was all smiles on her very first first day, excited to be a big girl like her Kate. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Would she miss me? Would she cry? Would I sob unabashedly right in front of her? Will she make friends? Will she pee her pants? Will she know to ask a teacher if she needs help?
However, when it came time to drop her off, I was remarkably calm. So much so that when a teacher swooped over to the car and plucked Annie out of her car seat, I simply smiled at her excited smile and wished her lots of fun. And as I drove away, I teared up a little bit, for that tiny sprite just took another step toward growing up.
That brief flash of sadness was quickly replaced by something else. Excitement. As much as I will miss having her here with me, I truly am excited for her. Excited for her to learn new things, meet new kids, discover who she is. In school she will not be the middle child, the girl who has a big sister with autism, the girl with the baby brother. She will simply be Annie.
Annie was all smiles on her very first first day, excited to be a big girl like her Kate. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Would she miss me? Would she cry? Would I sob unabashedly right in front of her? Will she make friends? Will she pee her pants? Will she know to ask a teacher if she needs help?
However, when it came time to drop her off, I was remarkably calm. So much so that when a teacher swooped over to the car and plucked Annie out of her car seat, I simply smiled at her excited smile and wished her lots of fun. And as I drove away, I teared up a little bit, for that tiny sprite just took another step toward growing up.
That brief flash of sadness was quickly replaced by something else. Excitement. As much as I will miss having her here with me, I truly am excited for her. Excited for her to learn new things, meet new kids, discover who she is. In school she will not be the middle child, the girl who has a big sister with autism, the girl with the baby brother. She will simply be Annie.
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