power

I would love to tell you how proud I was of Miss M at her Christmas concert at the symphony hall. How I puffed up with pride and took pictures, and how we went out for a celebratory ice cream afterward.

It didn't happen.

Three days before the concert, I picked Miss M up for her usual mad dash to rehearsal. Her schoolteacher pulled me aside. Miss M hadn't been herself. She was exhibiting some behaviors that were waaay out of character. Considering the schedule we'd been on, and the pressure of rehearsal, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. We agreed that I'd talk to her in the evening, and we'd touch base the following morning.

Miss M got into the car, stuffy nose and glassy eyed. She was on edge, a little out of sorts. I asked her what was wrong.

"Oh, nothing," she said, doing a terrible job of lying.

Grimpy, my intrepid father, sat in the passenger seat and we exchanged glances.

With gentle prodding, she unfurled a tapestry of anxiety; her back hurt from standing for hours; she had a hard time standing still and acting "like everybody else" - and worse- the other girls were mean to her.

"They make faces at me, Mom. When the teacher isn't looking, they step on my folder and cut me in line and snap at me when I bring it to their attention."

The jungle drums beat in my head.

"Would you like me to call the teacher?" I said, trying to remain calm. "What would you like me to do?" I said quietly, as not to further amp up her anxiety.

"I - I - it's too much for me to act so- so - still" she said, "and no matter how reasonable I try to be to the girls, they're just mean. They know I'm different."

My heart split into a thousand little pieces, and I gripped the steering wheel in the hopes that the shards would not go spilling out of my chest.

"I can talk to the teacher," I said quietly. The organization does a mighty job of keeping the girls behind a secured door - I knew that the best I'd manage would be an email or message that wouldn't be addressed for at least a day. I glanced at my clock. Half- hour.

"M," I began, "I'm going to ask you how you want me to handle this. How can I help you?"

I could hear her snuffle her nose and suck on her cough drop. Oh Lord. On top of it all, she was sick.

It was too much for her.

"If you'd like to go home today, I'm perfectly cool with it. You'd have time to think and recover a bit." I made the offer, pulling over to the side of the road.

She thought about it. I could hear her wheels turning. "The concert is only a few days away. And I've worked so hard," she said.

"Listen. You have the power to decide what you want to do. You are a powerful person. You don't have to take that garbage from the girls. I can help you with that. You don't have to stand for hours and sing and try to act like everyone else. Whatever you want to do is fine with me."

I could hear her smile in the back seat. "But you've spent so much money," she said weakly. It wasn't a good argument.

"I could give a crap about money," I said.

My dad, God bless him, chimed in. "Hija," he said in his little old man voice, sounding so much more sage than my own,"You have the power to decide what you want to do. You shouldn't ever do anything you don't want to do."

She started crying. "The truth is...that I want to sing. I want to sing for fun and enjoyment. I have this idea...I'd like to go back to the church choir, where Kathy lets me take breaks and move and clap and play the tambourine. It's...it's alot to be..." she inhaled," normal."

We rode for a few blocks.

"May I stay home today, and think about it?"

I smiled, in spite of the pulsing blood in my ears. "Thy will be done, honey."

We turned off of Market street, and headed home. We stopped by the boulangerie for macarons, and she skipped, held my hands, kissed her grandfather. Her relief was palpable.

We made a big dinner and built a fire.

When her dad came home, she told him what had been happening. We sat at the table. She cleared her throat for an announcement. "My mind is made up. I don't want to go back," she said bravely.

She hasn't looked back or thought about it twice. I suspect that there may be some fall out later. There always is, months after the fact.

My husband had a hard time with her "shirking her responsibilities." With the money. As I reminded him, "She's autistic. Our rules are different." I felt slightly like a mama bear, baring my teeth. He eventually got it.

As for the bullying, we've talked about it at length. She handled herself appropriately. There was going to be no support from the organization. The telltale sign was that the instructor never bothered to call me back or address the bullying. As my friend bluntly said, "Not the place for her. Case closed."

It makes me sad that the bullying happened, in spite of Miss M's efforts, of her frank attempts at rectifying the situation. Some places, I guess, are still not for us.

I struggle with the Autism Goggles, the glasses I wear when my spirits are down and I'm weak and vulnerable and all I see are the differences. I've been flipping between my clear vision and the goggles for days now.

You know what? I love her differences. I love the way she eats organic salads and apples as if they were candy. I love that she speaks The Queen's English. I love that she reads Dickens and O.Henry and Shakespeare and mythology and relates it to her life. I love the way she cuddles her sister and studies human behavior and works on "trying to read" people.

She knows who and what she is, and more importantly, she knows her own power.

Today, I trudged to the grocery store to buy the prime rib for Christmas dinner. I walked into the store, greeting the employees by name, as I always do, joking with the barista and teasing the produce manager.

I got to the check-out. The bagger was obviously affected, perhaps cognitively impaired. He stimmed for a moment on a package, and stared at the large lump of wrapped meat. The line behind me was long and impatient. "How you cook this?" he said, stroking the hunk of beef. "Oh, I do a rub and cook for a long, long time." I noticed him struggling with the bag. I opened it for him, and basically bagged the items myself. "What's your favorite holiday food?" I asked, trying not to look at the angry mob behind me. "Ice cream! Peppermint!" he said enthusiastically. We shared a giggle.

I felt my ears get hot, and that familiar prickly feeling behind my eyes. I wished him a happy holiday, and barely turned my back before the tears fell. I wiped them away, the ache in my chest dull and hard. As I thankfully approached the electric doors, the woman at Customer Service stopped me. "Thank you for always being so nice, especially to the handicapped employees," she said warmly. I noticed that her assistant was wiping down carts with antibacterial wipes. She has the beautiful almond eyes of Down's Syndrome. She smiled at me, great creases in her chubby cheeks. I nodded, as I couldn't speak, and got out the door. I began sobbing, and ten minutes later, sat in my car, still going.

I cried for my daughter, who has to work so goddamned hard. I cried for your child, who has to work so goddamned hard. And I cried for that employee, who took far too long to get that damned bag open, and who loves peppermint ice cream at Christmastime.

Later, the girls and I took the train downtown to see a Christmas ballet. Miss M sheepishly sidled up to me. "Uh, Mother? I don't like to ask for things, but - "

Without her finishing her sentence, I handed her a small roll of dollar bills. She likes to give dollars to Salvation Army bell ringers, to homeless families, to street musicians.

She doesn't ask for gifts. She asks for dollars to give away.

She gave $2 to a toothless man playing O Christmas Tree on his harmonica. She slipped her cold hand in mine. She nodded to the man and gave a little wave. "Thank you for the dollars," she whispered, "thank you for honoring Christmas all through the year."

I am not going to lie. Having a special needs kid - it can hurt sometimes. It cuts like a knife. I often feel like hurting the people who hurt my child.

But my girl?

She is magnificent. She shimmers. She glows.

And it is because of her that I see the bagger and know his name.

She makes me a better person.

And that's power.