Thursday, August 27, 2015

Waiting for the Short Bus

Fifth grader. Sorta.
I see all the moms chatting at the bus stop, waiting for their kids to come home from their first day of school.

And I keep driving.

I pass another bus stop. And another.

And I keep driving home.

But my kid rides the short bus.

Because he's the kind of "special" that requires extra adult supervision to ride the bus to and from school.

The kind of "special" that gets bused to the school on the far side of town because that's the one that has the inclusion program that he needs - the one with one teacher and three assistants and four kids in grades 3-5.

The kind of "special" that is stuck being the youngest kid in fifth grade even though he's developmentally delayed and reads on maybe a first-grade level because his late-September birthday qualified him to start kindergarten when he was four, and I wasn't allowed to hold him back a year because then our school district would not have been required to pay for his services. (And I can't very well hold him back now while his best friend advances to the next grade.)

So I write this post while I wait by myself for the short bus to arrive at my house.

Friday, August 7, 2015

He's not me

He's not me.

He's himself.

I have to keep reminding myself this.

I was reading by age five. I spent third grade staring out the window because the work was too easy for me. By fourth grade I was writing stories and packing my own lunch bag and making breakfast for my dad every morning. When I was younger than Ryan I was performing in musicals and the audience could understand the words I spoke and sang.

I was not the child that Ryan is.

And I can't expect him to be the child I was.

And it's not fair for me to expect him to be anyone else. But this doesn't stop me from making silly comparisons.

But that's unfair to him.

Because he's not me.

He's himself.

And I have to meet him where he is.

Because I love who he is.