to work

Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me a pervasive sense of concern and - worry, perhaps? - among the circles of special needs mothers I know as we steer closer to the start of school. In the supermarket, fellow mothers approach me and surreptitiously ask questions about placement, IEPS - is that teacher autism friendly? - within seconds of our perfunctory greeting. I receive furtive emails fraught with question marks from mothers who just want their kids to keep up and not suffer.

It is different this year because finally, at last, Miss M is blissfully ensconced in a loving and supporting environment, IEP-free, beholden to no district laws, and given the finest educational opportunities that our many dollars can buy. I no longer sweat the teacher, or the playground, or the lack of birthday invitations.

That doesn't mean that I don't remember,or feel your pain.

Just this morning, the unsinkable Miss Roxie began her first day of Kindergarten. To observe her, I understand the meaning of Kindergarten readiness; the social and academic perfectly measured and ready to go. In spite of her verbal pyrotechnics and saavy, Roxie was anxious. Nervous, even. She arose this morning, chattering and charming, modeling her uniform.

She vomited three times on the walk from the car to the school yard.

As she leaned over, careful not to hit her shoes, she sighed heavily and said, "Mom. Look. I know that I am going to do great at this. I'm just nervous because I don't know what is going to happen. Do you think you can understand how I'm feeling?" as she daubed at her mouth with a tissue.

And then she skipped into the ornate gates and proceeded to smile, hug teachers and wave goodbye.

The anticipation of the unknown. Roxie knew that her outcome was going to be great; she just needed to know the set up and flow.

I returned to work today. As I was walking through the courtyard, the mother of one of our top scholars approached me. Her seemingly "perfect" daughter was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa last week. Understandably, her mother is devastated.

She squeezed my arm. "You have no idea, Drama," she said, wiping a tear. "It just comes out of nowhere - and this damned disease is so pervasive and insidious. It just colors your whole family." She proceeded to go on about her concerns that her child would have to drop out of school, that she'd fall behind, that she won't recover - her worries were well-founded and not surprising.

And familiar.

I walked away and empathized with the mother. To receive a shocking diagnosis. To not know how to proceed. To worry that your child will never recover.

We know these feelings, yes?

Growing up is hard. Development is uneven and messy, and seemingly, challenges parents until children are well down the road to adulthood. (Okay, who's kidding?) Or beyond.

As parents, we wish to spare our children pain, to provide the answers that will allay fears and ensure success.

There is no magic bullet.

Instead, we must walk through the fire with our children, leading, guiding as well as we can, but truthfully? I don't know the path much better than you do; my knowledge is shaky at best, and my kids - most of the time - are far more facile at figuring out the paths and shortcuts.

I've been thinking alot about mission and purpose lately, and like Michelle O'Neil, I am certain that my daughters are here to do great things.

I used to think, for Miss M, that her "great things" would be in the future tense; that I sort of couldn't wait to get through this autism thing to get through to what she was really meant to do.

I realize now, that her great things are here now; the way that she challenges and inspires me, her perceptions and the way, quite simply, she has made me a better human being. A deeper human being. A human being who, yes, suffers and worries and whispers to my fellow comadres my darkest fears - but a human being who is, at the very least, living the unexamined life with two very, very astute teachers.

I have no good advice for you, or comfort, really. We move through it, softly or fiercely, but the point is, we do it together.

We get them through.

All is well.