Yesterday, I took my niece, Destiny, to visit the Mississippi School for the Blind and Deaf. She will be attending school there in January. She has spent the last two years in our local public school system, and she just isn't getting what she needs there.
When we walked into the building, my sister instructed my niece to "trail the wall". For those who don't know, this means to walk along the wall, touching it with your hand, using it for a guide. Upon being told to do so, Destiny sadly grumbled, "No, momma. They'll make fun of me." My heart was broken. How much can one child suffer? Never mind the myriad surgeries. Never mind the bumping and stumbling injuries. Never mind the pain of having an eye removed and having a prosthetic fitted. Never mind not understanding why she can't see like her brother and sister. But let's also add the heartbreak of being made fun of by classmates, children whose parents don't bother educating them on disabilities and human compassion.
We joined Destiny's class for lunch. If you ever need a humbling experience, go watch a class of blind children. Watch them make their ways through classroom and down halls. Watch them locate things on shelves. Watch them help each other. Watch them do all this with not a single complaint. Watch them become excited about holding a new friend's hand and guiding her down the hall. Watch them love to read...
After lunch, the teacher and my sister needed to speak to the principal. I remained in the hall with the class. Behind us, on the wall, there was a large display of essays written in braille by the students and translated into typed paragraphs for others to see. In the essays, the students had responded to the following prompt, "Learning is important to me because..." As I scanned the essays, I noticed that nearly all of the essays included this response, "...because I want to read."
One of the girls in the class asked me if I'd like her to read to me. "Please do," I asked her. She placed both hands on the wall and ran them across the display until she could focus on one essay. Meticulously, she guided her index finger over what looked like dots to me. She spoke the words she read, never missing a beat, until something stopped her. She stood quietly and pressed the side of her head closer to the wall, as if she could will the braille to speak into her ear. I wondered what was wrong. She'd been doing so well. Did she come upon a letter she doesn't know? Finally, she whispered, "They blacked this one out." She moved on to another essay and began reading. I leaned into the wall and focused on what she'd been reading. There in the middle of the paragraph, the typically raised braille had been depressed. Even her skillful, tiny hands couldn't decipher the letters, now.
Two Dots...and I have the nerve to complain about my reading assignments taking up too much of my time.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
I believe I am his mother.
Written Thursday, July 31, 2008
Yesterday, I somehow figured out how to get JJ dressed, strap him in his car seat, drive to the store, unbuckle the car seat to get him out, and finally, strap him into the baby seat on the shopping cart. But, while waiting for the cashier to ring up my stuff, JJ, being the 10 month old that he is, began to fuss about having been in that seat for more than 20 seconds. The cashier apparently figured that I am just not capable of raising this child. She exclaimed, "oh, mommy," and proceeded to walk around the cart, put her hands between JJ and the harness, raise him to a more suitable height and adjust his posture. She then completes her task with an exalting, "there". I watch this woman. I am too stunned to say anything. I want to ask her, "Excuse me, could you hold my things while I check my vagina for that scar that I'm pretty sure came from his entrance into the world?"
Is this normal? What gives her the right and audacity to: 1.) put her hands on my child and 2.) School me on how to keep him happy? Am I not the one who gained 70 lbs creating him? Am I not the one who couldn't sit straight for 8 weeks after his birth because episiotomies are pure hell? Am I not the one who sported very heavy, sore breasts for 8 months to see that he got the very best start to life? Am I not the one who stayed up with him until 4 am when he was colicky and screamed all night? Am I not the one who doesn't own a single piece of clothing without some sort of infant by-product stain on it? Am I not the one who has the scent of ruined diapers permanently stuck in her nostrils?
As I finish this rant, I am surrounded by a sea of toilet paper which JJ has discovered, strung across the room, stuffed into his diaper, and soaked with teething saliva. Where are those cashiers when you need them?
Yesterday, I somehow figured out how to get JJ dressed, strap him in his car seat, drive to the store, unbuckle the car seat to get him out, and finally, strap him into the baby seat on the shopping cart. But, while waiting for the cashier to ring up my stuff, JJ, being the 10 month old that he is, began to fuss about having been in that seat for more than 20 seconds. The cashier apparently figured that I am just not capable of raising this child. She exclaimed, "oh, mommy," and proceeded to walk around the cart, put her hands between JJ and the harness, raise him to a more suitable height and adjust his posture. She then completes her task with an exalting, "there". I watch this woman. I am too stunned to say anything. I want to ask her, "Excuse me, could you hold my things while I check my vagina for that scar that I'm pretty sure came from his entrance into the world?"
Is this normal? What gives her the right and audacity to: 1.) put her hands on my child and 2.) School me on how to keep him happy? Am I not the one who gained 70 lbs creating him? Am I not the one who couldn't sit straight for 8 weeks after his birth because episiotomies are pure hell? Am I not the one who sported very heavy, sore breasts for 8 months to see that he got the very best start to life? Am I not the one who stayed up with him until 4 am when he was colicky and screamed all night? Am I not the one who doesn't own a single piece of clothing without some sort of infant by-product stain on it? Am I not the one who has the scent of ruined diapers permanently stuck in her nostrils?
As I finish this rant, I am surrounded by a sea of toilet paper which JJ has discovered, strung across the room, stuffed into his diaper, and soaked with teething saliva. Where are those cashiers when you need them?
Before You
Written Wednesday, January 23, 2008
He sits in his swing giggling at my attempts to do roundhouse kicks. Yeah, laugh it up young man. It's your fault mommy is out of shape. Before you, Billy Blanks and I were good friends. Now, I want to curse him when he says, "lean over a little bit more." I want to tell him to try pushing an eight and a half pound baby out of you know where and lean over just a little bit more.
Two days later, he sits in his bouncy seat, and laughs as I try to remaster the treadmill. Again, laugh it up young man. Before you, mommy had no problem jogging for miles on here. Now, two minutes and I'm about to collapse.
Before you, I thought I knew what pain was, and I thought I was modest. But after seventeen hours of labor, I don't care who's looking, just get it out.
Before you, I thought I knew what exhaustion and patience were. But then you were colicky. Before you, I thought I knew what guilt was. But then I clipped your little thumb while trying to get the nail. Before you, I thought I knew what fear was. But then you got sick.
Before you, I thought I knew what pride was. But then, you gained nine ounces after a week at my breasts. Before you, I thought I knew what joy was. But then, you smiled at me simply because I entered the room and spoke to you. Before you, I thought I knew what love was. But then there was you.
Before you, I never wanted to hear anyone laugh at me while I worked out.
He sits in his swing giggling at my attempts to do roundhouse kicks. Yeah, laugh it up young man. It's your fault mommy is out of shape. Before you, Billy Blanks and I were good friends. Now, I want to curse him when he says, "lean over a little bit more." I want to tell him to try pushing an eight and a half pound baby out of you know where and lean over just a little bit more.
Two days later, he sits in his bouncy seat, and laughs as I try to remaster the treadmill. Again, laugh it up young man. Before you, mommy had no problem jogging for miles on here. Now, two minutes and I'm about to collapse.
Before you, I thought I knew what pain was, and I thought I was modest. But after seventeen hours of labor, I don't care who's looking, just get it out.
Before you, I thought I knew what exhaustion and patience were. But then you were colicky. Before you, I thought I knew what guilt was. But then I clipped your little thumb while trying to get the nail. Before you, I thought I knew what fear was. But then you got sick.
Before you, I thought I knew what pride was. But then, you gained nine ounces after a week at my breasts. Before you, I thought I knew what joy was. But then, you smiled at me simply because I entered the room and spoke to you. Before you, I thought I knew what love was. But then there was you.
Before you, I never wanted to hear anyone laugh at me while I worked out.
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