Thrown in the Rubbish Heap

I noticed earlier today that I had an anonymous (of course!) comment on one of my past posts saying something like, "Why do optimistic people like you write things like this? You should throw your baby in the rubbish heap."

My first instinct was to just delete this comment (and I did). This is MY blog, so this person doesn't get an equal forum with me. And I thought I should just try to forget it, not dwell on it, certainly not let such a thing take up a moment of my time or be seen on MY blog.

I certainly am trying not to let this comment hurt me. This person does not know me or my child (eg, anyone who knows me would truly get a belly laugh out of my being called optimistic). This person must not be a parent at all or could never dare to think or write something like that about someone else's child. But it is this attitude that I worry about for Jordan when he's out in the world by himself someday. He is just someone's "trash," not a person? Not a valuable part of this world just because he uses a device for walking?

That the person wrote "rubbish heap" makes me think this was probably a British person, so I think back to Gail Landsman's wonderful book Reconstructing Motherhood and Disability in the Age of "Perfect" Babies . She believes that one reason Americans stick with their children with disabilities rather than throwing them away like has been done in so many cultures throughout time is because of Americans' belief in the underdog, in the "against all odds," pull yourself up by your boostraps story. And nowhere is this idea more potent and prevalent than right in the area where I live, right outside of Philadelphia, PA, home of Rocky Balboa.

The reason I bring this up is because I've often struggled with the notion in disability studies that "hero or villain" is a harmful concept. I do agree, of course, that people with disabilities shouldn't be viewed in the villain role, as in the reaction to Dick Cheney's use of a wheelchair at Obama's inauguration. And I do agree that the "inspirational story of the week" wears a bit thin, too. But as a parent of a child with an impairment, I am exceedingly inspired by him every day. Is that okay because it's a "parent thing?" Do all parents feel this way?

Furthermore, is this inspirational thing what has kept us Americans from abandoning our disabled infants, keeping them, helping them to be the best they can be, just like we do for any other child? So is it a good thing to keep these inspirational stories coming?

Landsman also says in her book that mothers of children with disabilities—American women—often try to create a narrative to deal with their children's conditions, creating kind of a linear "movie" of their lives as a progression. I noticed that in myself, too, especially in the short movie I made of Jordan's life when he was 3 years old (see top left of this page for a link to it). Called "Jordan's Life So Far," I essentially plotted out his life as a linear progression from birth with clubfeet, dislocated knee, etc. through surgeries that "fixed" him to normalizing images of him doing everyday things that any kid does—playing the drums, painting, etc. I noticed shortly after I created it that this is what I did—presented his life in an "inspirational" way that is expected in this country. Is this so bad?

What I do think is bad is feeling the need to even do this, to make him not just normal but above normal. Would I idealize him anyway because he is my child? Or do I truly see him doing things I don't think I could do—be happy in the face of surgeries and not being "normal?" It's strange to me, too, as someone who never wanted to be "normal" or "average." I wanted to be different. I wanted to be extraordinary but never was. Now that he is different, am I trying to make him ABOVE everyone else, present him as EXTRAordinary?

But back to my original point about the anonymous comment on my blog. My first thought was that it's people like that who should be thrown in the "rubbish heap," not my beautiful boy. But wouldn't it be better to say that whether we are "normal," "disabled," "extraordiary," "impaired," or even a rude anonymous blog commenter, none of us should be thrown away, that all of us have value?

Disability Blog Carnival #53: Pot Luck

With the topic Pot Luck, I hoped to receive a lot of varied submissions. And I sure did! True to the topic, the submissions were all over the place! This was my first blog carnival, and it was so much fun putting it together! I hope you enjoy the offerings here.

(Mis)Perceptions and Labeling
To start it off, Andrea from Andrea’s Buzzing About talks about empathy in people with autism in You Just Don’t Get It. She writes, "If you cannot see that autistic people do indeed have empathy, then possibly you are not perceiving their distress, identifying the feelings being experienced, discerning probable causes, and being able to identify with such situations."

Laura at Touched By an Alien: Life as I Know It writes about the controversy of labeling in order to receive community resources. She rightly asks if services should be more geared toward the individual rather than based on a label.

Cheryl writes If You're a Tard and You Know It... about the book The Short Bus: A Journey Beyond Normal by Jonathan Mooney. She recommends this book and its great disability pride sentiments and from the sound of it, just because it's fun.

Accessibility: IKEA, Pubs, and Dick Cheney’s Wheelchair
Accessibility was on several people’s minds. Lauredhel of Hoyden About Town was at first impressed by IKEA’s accessibility—until she tried to leave the store!

Emma at Writings of a Wheelchair Princess tells us about recent complaints she has written about accessibility issues she’s encountered. “I will always be making complaints because how else will the world change?” she asks.

I also received a few thought-provoking posts about Dick Cheney’s use of a wheelchair at the presidential inauguration last month. Laura writes about Cheney’s Villainy: Nothing to Do with His Wheelchair. She writes: “We don’t need another villain in a wheelchair. A villain he may be, with shared responsibility for torture, repression, and all kinds of other crimes against humanity. But the wheelchair has nothing to do with it.”

Liz also covers this topic at Deconstructing Cheney's De-Inaugural Wheelchair. She writes: “How bitter, but how very expected, that the top levels of our own government, the most powerful men around, can't pull it together to obtain a halfway decent wheelchair and decent access, for one of their own. That exposes the deep, deep ignorance in our country about access for people with disabilities, and how far we have yet to go.”

Pity and Incompetence
At the blog Coral and Opal, there is a good commentary, Some Laughs Are Cheaper Than Others, about recent comedy skits about David Patterson, governor of New York. Even humorous skits should not “further the misconception that blindness is part of incompetence,” they write.

Speaking of demeaning views of people with disabilities, we must mention our old friend Jerry Lewis! The excellent blog The Trouble with Jerry has been cataloging Lewis’ use of pity to raise money for muscular dystrophy research. They recently posted the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ response to a letter opposing Lewis’ receiving a humanitarian award. Equating Lewis’ patronizing and pity-based approach to people with disabilities to "some scratches in the paint job” on a Lamborghini, the Academy just doesn’t get it and is sticking by its intention to give Lewis the award. Can’t say I’m surprised. . . .

Honoring “Genuine Inspirations”
I received a few posts on people with disabilities who have been true inspirations. I know, I know, but check out Romeo’s post on Tom, “the most famous autistic savant of all time,” who was a musical genius.

PhilosopherCrip talks about a “genuine inspiration”—I like that!—in a “heartfelt remembrance of an activist and a ‘force,’” his friend Annie who recently passed away at age 24. Annie’s philosophy of life was “Embrace diversity. Educate your community. Empower each other. Love life.” A little bit different than that Lamborghini with scratches on it above, huh?

And who isn't the biggest inspiration to us parents than our children? I received some great posts from mothers who blog about their children. Sally at Maggie World talks about her daughter’s communication abilities at The Sounds of Silence. Since getting her trach, her daughter communicates without her voice. Sally misses Maggie’s laugh and how she used to say “mama.” “We communicate fine without that one word, but it was always nice to hear,” she writes in his heartfelt post.

Ricki’s mom at Beneath the Wings gives us several thought-provoking posts about life with her daughter. On one occasion, she found running away to be the best response. It’s better on the nerves and the eardrums, she writes. She tells us about Ricki’s shaking off an annoying offer of help with something she could do perfectly well herself, thank you. On yet another occasion, Ricki’s mom found herself teaching a future special ed teacher a lesson about rights and respect . And last, she deals with teachers who let Ricki get away with murder. All in a day’s work for a mother, huh? :)

Miscellaneous
Heather from Learn-gasm provides a nicely organized list of the top 100 gender studies blogs. Anyone have a list of top 100 disability studies blogs?

A few posts discussed specific conditions and how they should or should not be treated. Dean at The Back Pain Blog talks about Herniated Discs and the Catch-22 of Rehabilitation. Rebuilding a person’s back isn’t easy, but Dean says it can be done.

And Ettina of Abnormaldiversity talks about side effects of behavioral treatments. She also reports on a case in Canada concerning a woman with Asperger’s. Ettina writes: “Much as many people would like it, being nasty and verbally abusive does not take away your human rights.”

Barbara at Barbara's Tchatzkahs tells us about how the topic of autoimmune diseases is pushed under the rug even though these disorders are so prevalent.

Alicia at Temporarily Disabled writes about warning signs her body was giving her when she was just in the fourth grade. This is her first entry in what should be a great blog. She tells us to stay tuned; I know I will!

Eminism.org reports on a recent symposium at the University of Washington on the “Ashley treatment,” or "growth attenuation". No disability rights activists were present at the conference, which is quite disturbing.

Terri at About Partners in Policymaking writes about participating in New York State Partners in Policymaking (NYSPIP). She tells us that PIP covers “cutting-edge ideas and principles,” and the best part of the program is the relationships that are built there. PIP exists in most states, so look into it!

Keeping Hope Alive
I’ll end with some optimistic thoughts. At Life of John , John discusses keeping hope alive about finding that special someone through online dating. Good luck, John!

Frances tries to look on the bright side about the current financial crisis in her Independent Living Journal. She writes, “… perhaps now it's time to back the people who don't fit into the narrow stereotypes of traditional success, and see whether imagination and good-will can get us a bit further than recent economic theories have.” Here’s hoping!

And finally, Terri at Barriers, Bridges and Books shares the post Impossible? about her hopes that our new president can make some progress for people with disabilities.

Phew! All of these posts gave us a lot of food for thought, and I hope everyone had their fill (I know, pretty bad)! Thank you for all the submissions. I think this topic really worked out well—broad enough to be able to include tons of different topics and experience many different blogs. But wait, don’t go away too fast—anyone going to help me with the dishes???

Jordan's Dream

"I had a dream that they let me hand out the forks at school." That's what my 4-year-old son said yesterday.

"Do other kids hand out the forks at school?" I asked him.

"Yes."

"Do they take turns?"

"Yes."

"And you don't get a turn?"

"No."

OH, HELL NO.

His school, which started out great, has gone downhill lately, with teachers leaving all the time. It seems like every few weeks someone is gone and a new teacher is there. It's hard to keep up. Ever since this has been the case, he hasn't liked school as much. He is a very sociable kid, and what went from enthusiasm earlier in the year has turned into the opposite. Changing teachers so much is really affecting him, it seems.

He LOVES to help around the house. He loves doing the dishes with me, and I give him the heaviest pots to put away, the glass bowls, everything (except the sharp knives!!). He feeds the dogs and sweeps the floor. Of course, he cleans up his toys. So it's his DREAM to help out at school. Could my heart be breaking any more than this???????

My husband and I went in to talk to the teacher today. She said, "Okay, I'll do that" and went back to writing something. A weekend full of discussions about how to handle this, what to say, how to explain that we EXPECT INCLUSION, boils down to a dismissal by the teacher. "Are you satisfied with that?" I said loudly to my husband. "No," he said, and we continued to talk to her. He has a bag on his walker that helps him carry things. We expect him to be included just like anyone else. "Okay, I'll do that today," she said. TODAY? No, this should be an overall thing. I almost snatched up Jordan and took him out of there. He sat at a table nearby and was listening to what we said to her. He is still at the stage where he thinks his father and I can solve all the problems of the world. IF ONLY.

We talked to the co-director of the school, and she said she would observe the classroom today and then get back to us and then tell the teacher what changes she needs to make. This seems to be under control for the moment. We would switch him to another school, but if we do that every time he is discriminated against, would we be switching schools constantly? Can we do anything to get them to change? Do they need reminders from time to time? Or is it IMPOSSIBLE??????????????

He is 4 years old now. I do not look forward to all the fights we will have to keep having over his education for the next 14 years. But believe me, I am up for the fight. He is going to know that he will be included. He is going to DEMAND to be included. He is not going to be like me as a kid, shy and letting everyone walk all over him. He is going to continue to see us demand equal treatment, and if he doesn't get it, they are going to see us, hear us, over and over until they get it.

Postscript: Jordan gave out the forks today at school. It makes me cry to think about this simple thing being his dream. It also makes me cry that someday soon I won't be able to solve everything for him so easily. My boy is growing up--is the world ready for him???

If I knew then...

When my son was some orthopedic issues, I thought I knew what it meant because I had just spent the last 5 weeks of my pregnancy with a broken ankle. I was miserable and not a “good patient.” I complained constantly, my arms hurt from hoisting myself up, and I was just downright miserable. Maybe some of it was because I was 9 months pregnant and walking on one leg on crutches, but who knows how I would have been otherwise.

On top of what I already “knew,” the doctors had dire predictions for Jordan. The first one said he might have trisomy 18, meaning “mental retardation, heart problems, and die before age 1.” We took him to so many specialists those first few months. How scary is it to take your newborn to a neurosurgeon? They said he would never walk, and he would be incontinent. He had some kind of growth on his brain. The cyst on his nose might be brain tissue coming down through his nose, and any kind of little cold might lead to meningitis. It went on and on. Waking up a few days a week to take him to more appointments, only to hear more horrible things that were going to happen to him.

I recently edited a book that prepares people for taking a nursing exam. The author stresses that giving “false hope” is unethical. Nurses shouldn’t say, “Everything will be okay” when it might not be. But is it also unethical to give only worst-case scenarios? That seems to be all doctors give these days. I understand they want to protect themselves from malpractice suits. But would it be so bad to give a little hope once in a while? Anyway, can hope ever be "false?"

I wish just one doctor or other “professional” would have told me that yes, your child may have some medical issues, but above anything else, he’s a KID. The doctor visits, the surgeries, the physical therapy and evaluations become just things you have to do, and your child grows up anyway, despite everything. It really hit me one day when he was about 1 year old, a quiet moment sitting at the table with him eating French fries. And I realized this is normal. This is just our life. The regular, everyday moments had finally surpassed all the medical stuff we had to do. He was growing up despite what everyone said. He was just a regular kid, with likes and dislikes, things that scare him and things that make him laugh. The doctors never tell you that your child will learn the alphabet, make friends, love movies, sing songs, play the drums, love cutting things out of magazines, and think he's a pirate. To them he is only a medical diagnosis. If I had known then what I know now, the start to our journey wouldn’t have been so difficult and frightening.

“Handicapped”

When my son was born with a dislocated knee, dislocated hips, clubfeet, and missing the lower part of his spine, and they said he might never walk (might not even LIVE), I thought I knew what it meant. I had just spent the last 5 weeks of my pregnancy in a cast from my toes to my knee, after breaking my ankle when I was 8 months pregnant.

Anyone who has been 8 and 9 months pregnant knows how often you have to go to the bathroom. The first night, I had to sleep on the sofa downstairs, and with no access to a bathroom on the same floor, my dad brought over his portable toilet they use while camping. It was a Sunday night, so I had to wait until the next afternoon to get my leg casted. I couldn’t take any pain medications because I was pregnant, so I spent the night in agony on that sofa, getting up several times to use the portable toilet, which was sitting on one of our living room chairs.

After getting my cast on, I managed to crawl up the steps to our house backwards, but then I had to haul myself up into a desk chair with wheels on it. We called it the FDR’s wheelchair because of how old and rickety it looked. But other chairs were too high for me to hoist myself up into. So I had to use my arms and the non-broken leg—I couldn’t put any weight whatsoever on the broken ankle—to lift up this heavy body I wasn’t used to. My family wasn’t giving me any help, really. They wanted me to “keep active.” All I thought about was keeping the baby safe.

I had to convince them to let me have a wheelchair; they thought I should walk on crutches so I’d be more active. But after falling down stairs and breaking my ankle, I wasn’t very confident about using crutches. I had never used them before, and I thought being 8 months pregnant, after already falling once, it was not the time to learn.

This late in pregnancy, it’s hard to sleep anyway, and now they say you shouldn’t sleep on your back when you’re pregnant. So, I had to sit up in bed with my leg elevated. It was hard to sleep, too, with the number of bathroom trips I had to make. The first week, before I had my wheelchair, I had to walk down the hall in the middle of the night, about once an hour, on crutches, scared I was going to fall again. Then when I did have the wheelchair, it was hard to move myself from the bed into the chair because there wasn’t much room for it next to the bed. When I was in the chair, I would wheel down the hallway, and then because the wheelchair couldn’t fit in through the bathroom door, I had to stand up at the door on one leg, grab my crutches, and take a few uncertain steps on them before plopping down as gently as I could on the toilet (ie, not gently at all), worried with every movement that I’d do something to hurt the baby.

To get into the shower, I’d have to step over the edge of the tub and then shower on one leg, and I wasn’t comfortable doing that. Also, we never realized we could put a plastic bag over my cast. So, I took sponge baths. I sat on the toilet, put a few towels over my cast, and then bathed from the water in the yellow bucket that I’d gotten as a baby shower gift. (The bucket had been the “gift basket,” and inside were all kinds of cute baby bath things such as washcloths, baby lotions, and baby shampoos.) I’d wash my hair and then rinse it by leaning over the tub and pouring a pitcher of water over my head. I took my time with these sponge baths; it was one of the only times of day when I felt fresh, clean, and comfortable—and not afraid that I wasn’t going to fall down (mainly because I was already sitting down)!

During those 5 weeks, I rarely went out, mostly to doctor’s appointments. The first time my ob/gyn saw me with the cast, hobbling out of the bathroom on crutches, she looked shocked and shouted, “You can’t deliver a baby LIKE THAT, with THAT on your leg!!!”

The day I got the wheelchair, my dad insisted on taking me out to the movies. I really didn’t want to go, but he thought I needed to get out. What I remember most about it was hard it was to use the bathroom. It was hard to open the doors to get into the bathroom, and then when inside the stall, the handrails on the walls were very wobbly, and some were coming off the walls. And the floor was slippery when I tried to haul myself from the wheelchair onto the toilet, and of course I was terrified as usual that I would fall and hurt the baby.

Also, he dropped me off at the door to park the car, and when I went to the ticket booth to buy our tickets, the man working there took a while to notice I was there because I was so low down in the wheelchair. Then he barely looked at me. It might not have been me, but that was how I perceived it, that he was “looking down on me” because I was in a wheelchair. And doors were slammed in my face whenever we went to the movies. No one would stand there and hold a door for me.

I was due to get the cast off 1 week before having the baby. Of course, he came a little early, and I still had the cast on when he was born. He was turned the wrong way, so I had to have a c-section. The mood in the delivery room was cheerful until he was born, and then it grew very quiet. Then I heard mutterings, “His legs… something is wrong with his legs….” After that, everyone was silent, and my husband went over as they cleaned him off, and all their backs were to me. “What’s wrong with him?” I yelled over and over. They seemed miles away from me but were only feet away. I tried to reach out to my baby, but my arms were pinned down. My legs were literally paralyzed from the epidural, and I couldn’t walk anyway with my leg in a cast. They let me glance at him for a split second, but of course not hold him, as they took my husband out and they stitched me up.

“What’s wrong with him?” I finally got to ask my husband.

“Just a little something with his legs. No big deal,” he said, as they pushed him out of the room. I later learned that while I was in there worried out of my mind, he was in the hallway holding our baby, Jordan, and showing him off to the grandparents. They took a lot of very smiley photos as I was alone in the recovery room, being told my baby probably had trisomy 18, meaning “mental retardation, heart problems, and die before age 1.” The doctor who said that then left me alone again, questions unanswered, with me on drugged out and shivering under a hot blanket.

They took Jordan away the next morning to a NICU about 40 miles away. Mike, my husband, came and stayed overnight with me every night that I was in the hospital, but he spent many hours of the day and into the late night there with Jordan in the NICU, reading him books. And holding him and feeding him, two things I was supposed to be doing. Not him. Me. But there I was worthless and helpless in a hospital bed 40 miles away while doctors ran countless tests on my baby and nurses took care of his most basic needs.

It still kills me to look at the first photos of him, taken when he was in the NICU. He had scratches all over his face because no one cut his nails, and he didn't have those little mittens to wear. And he was wearing a donated outfit because my husband didn't think to bring him anything to wear. I know he was busy running back and forth between hospitals. But instead of Jordan's wearing the adorable Winnie the Pooh outfit I had picked out for him to wear as a newborn, he was wearing a donated outfit, with scratches on his face, no mommy to take care of him.

One of the major things you’re supposed to do after a c-section is stand up on the second day after surgery. For me, they had two young physical therapists come in to help me. The pain was excruciating—but not as bad as broken ankle had been—as I stood up and these two young girls stared at me, dumbfounded. “That’s it,” I said, “I’m sitting down now.” Later that day they sent in a very energetic, muscular male PT, I guess who was supposed to motivate me. He didn’t. On maybe the third day, they let me take an actual shower, the first one I’d had in 5 weeks. They put a plastic thing over my leg, the nurse left me alone, and I just let the water rain down over me for nearly 45 minutes. And with less fear of falling now that I’d had the baby, I did start to walk on the crutches a little bit, and I remember so clearly that moment as I walked into the shower for the first time: I thought, this is what my baby is going to experience his whole life—this helplessness, pain, fear, sorrow, and anger. This is what being “handicapped” is all about, and this is what his whole life is going to be like!

Little did I know the powerful person my baby was. I was terrified to go into the NICU, but seeing him there for the first time, he looked so healthy lying next to the tiny babies in incubators. He had great coloring, was active and alert, and I could have sworn, he stared into my eyes already, responded to my voice, and knew who I was. And he looked like he knew something. At 2 weeks, old, he smiled during his first bath in the kitchen sink. At 6 weeks old, his Gymboree teacher told me, “He has an old soul.” At 3 months old, he laughed his first big laugh during an appointment at Shriners. He had five surgeries before he was 18 months old, and all of them were much harder for me than for him.

When he was just under 2 years old, he was a ringbearer in his grandfather’s wedding. When they asked us if he could be in the wedding, he couldn’t even walk yet. On the day of the wedding, he had been walking with his walker for only about 2 months. The other ringbearer, who was about Jordan’s age, had no trouble walking, but he cried his eyes out and had to be carried down the aisle by his mommy. Then Jordan confidently walked into the church all alone, looking like a little gentleman in his tuxedo, and shouted, “Hello, everybody!” He dashed down the aisle, taking his job very seriously, and sat in the front row of the church and “read” the church bulletin. The other kid continued to sob during the entire ceremony.

And now, at 3 years old, Jordan is the most joyful person I have ever known. He has what the veterinarian said of our Labrador retriever a few years back: joie de vivre. As he runs around with his walker, uses his forearm crutches as swords, throws himself on the floor when fighting imaginary bad guys, dances like crazy and throws his head around, “rocks out” with a guitar and sings at the top of his lungs, being “handicapped” is not something he considers or has any understanding of—and the way it looks now, he never will.

Mobility

When I was in middle school, I remember there was this girl on the school bus I took who used forearm crutches to walk. I remember staring at her through the window of the bus as she walked to get onto the bus. She had to cross over one lane of traffic to get to the bus. It took her a long time, and it didn't look easy for her. She always seemed happy, though. That was one thing I couldn't understand then, how she could be happy when she had to walk like that. She was very friendly and would talk to people, but most people would just ignore her. Including me. I feel so guilty and terrible now as I remember that I would think to myself, "Please don't let her talk to me." Because then I'd be obligated to talk to her, and someone might see me talking to her. I didn't have many friends. I wasn't popular at all. Yet I didn't want to be seen talking to the girl who walked like that.

Then what, 20 years later, first, I had a miscarriage in May of 2002. That happened the same week I got fired from my job. Fired, then found out I was pregnant a few days later, then went to the doctor a few days after that, who sent me right in for an ultrasound, and there on the screen: a sac with nothing in it. Or nothing we could see. Nothing every bled out, and I had to have it surgically removed. I spent the whole summer at home, jobless, mourning. Luckily, we had just gotten our dog, Kahlua, a chocolate Lab, in January of that year. She was with me all the time. When I laid in bed depressed, she'd come up and lie back to back with me. It was better than a person, really, because I didn't have to say a word.

The next year, in November of 2003, I got pregnant again. Within weeks, I started bleeding. It was heavy period-like bleeding that lasted 6 weeks straight. It was the most frightening thing to me in the world at the time--going to the bathroom so many times a day, never knowing what I'd find.

I went on bedrest for 3 weeks, but I continued to bleed. The doctor said what will happen will happen, and bedrest really wasn't going to do anything. I went back to work, still bleeding. It stopped on January 18, 2004. I don't usually remember dates too well, but that one I do. The baby was fine. But it wasn't until March that I bought one thing for the baby. I was 5 months' pregnant by that time, and my husband and I went to Target and got a few little outfits and stuff. I remember these little light green onesies we bought. They had palm trees on them and giraffes. They were sooo cute. I let myself trust that the baby was going to be okay. Finally, I let myself believe it.

After Target, we went out to eat that night, to celebrate. I saw an ex-coworker there. She was from the job I got fired from. So that brought all of that back. We liked the restaurant--they had freshly baked, hot chocolate chip cookies with cold milk for dessert! So a few weeks later, we went back to the same restaurant with some friends. I remember waiting for our table and seeing this group of two couples with their kids. One of the kids used those forearm crutches. He was about 5 years old. I remember looking at the parents, noticing how they talked so nonchalantly to each other, laughing, chatting with each other, barely watching their son as he basically ran around on those crutches. I wondered how they could be so casual about it, seemingly not even thinking about how their son was getting around.

Now when people stare at my 2-year-old son when he is using a walker, I am the one acting casual. I am the one who thinks it's great that he can get around on his own. I am not the one staring, wondering how those parents do it. I am not the kid staring at another kid using crutches. He's my kid now. And I can see why that little girl on the school bus was so happy, why those parents were laughing and nonchalant. They probably went through a lot to get to that point, and they were glad for the walking, even if it was with a "device." The independence that that walker gives my son and those crutches gave those other kids is what is important--not that they do it in the way people are used to seeing. So when people stare at my son now, I have to try to remember that I was once one of the starers, not understanding what it's like, not understanding that it's a triumph and progress rather than something to be scared of.