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This week I got a taste of what it’s like to live in my daughter’s world.
She came home from school in hysterics about how the three students she shares a table with in her first grade classroom had treated her that day. She said one of them hit her in the head at recess and the group of them were nice to everyone in class but her.
M has high functioning autism and struggles to recall and communicate past events, so I wasn’t sure what to make of her claims. One thing I did know: she was devastated and begging me not to take her to school the following day. I sent a kindly worded email to her teacher letting her know what M had told me and asking for more information, and how I could help.
Before I go any further, let me say– teachers have the hardest job in the world, and I trust and respect M’s teacher very much.
But.
What I got this time was a conversation after school that left no room for my questions, in which the teacher basically talked directly to M, correcting her in front of me. The girl hadn’t intentionally hit M, she had tripped and M thought it was on purpose. The group of three students at her table are actually very good helpers and try to keep M on task when the teacher is helping others, which can come across as harsh to M since they don’t do that to anyone else in class. “You are in a very good spot at that table, we can’t have it getting messed up now, you need those kids to help you, M. You should be grateful.”
I understood what the teacher was trying to accomplish, but I saw the embarrassment on M’s face, and somehow felt like I was being scolded as well. As if my email reaching out were too much. As if M misunderstanding the situation and crying to me about it was an unacceptable mistake for a first grader to make. As if having M in a general education classroom was just too much for the ‘normal’ people to deal with.
A couple days later I received a call from the school nurse who left a voicemail, “M was in music class today and, well, just call me back.”
…Okay…
Frantic, I immediately called the nurse, and she said, “M was in music class sitting on the floor, and she had an accident and didn’t even tell the teacher; he had to walk over and find her sitting in her own mess. We just wanted to call and tell you to make sure we are all on the same page that you NEED to reinforce raising her hand to use the restroom. We just need to make sure you tell her to always ask to go so she won’t have more accidents. She is totally capable, so she needs to understand that it is not okay to pee in her pants.”
As if it were a life skill I’d simply neglected to teach her.
As if I hadn’t done my part at home.
“Wow, I’m sorry. Do I need to bring her a change of clothes?”
“No, I usually NEVER have clothes in her size, but luckily this time I had one pair of leggings that fit her, but I need you to return them washed as soon as possible.”
…You can never overestimate the importance of tone when communicating with a parent.
I already knew why she’d done it, and M confirmed my suspicions when she came home: she didn’t know how to get to the bathroom from music class, and was too nervous to ask for help.
She didn’t want to be too much. She didn’t want to be a burden. She wanted to be like everybody else.
It made me think about all the ways I inadvertently communicate to my kids that they’re a burden.
Stop it, I’m trying to work.
Stop it, I’m trying to talk to daddy.
Stop it, I’m trying to cook.
Stop it, I’m trying to drive.
Stop it, I’m trying to feed the baby.
Stop it, I’m trying to practice.
Stop it, I’m trying to clean this room.
Stop it.
I get where the school was coming from this past week, I really do. I cannot stress enough how grateful I am for their hard work and dedication to our kids. I know how much they have on their plates, and how these sorts of disruptions may seem small, but when you’re dealing with 27 kids in a class they’re anything but.
However, this empathy thing only works when it’s two sided.
If only they knew the toilet battles we’ve fought at home. How every day for two years M would smear her poop all over her bedroom floor anytime I left her alone in there, how I spent over an hour every day scrubbing it out of the grout on my hands and knees with a toothbrush. USE THE TOILET, M. How we have been trying to night-time toilet train for the last 3 years with little luck and ruined mattresses. USE THE TOILET, M. If only they could see how proud she is when she walks out of her room at midnight and declares, “I REMEMBERED TO USE THE POTTY!” If only they knew just how hard she does try and how much progress she’s made.
If only they knew what it was like to only partially grasp the social world around you, yet desperately want to find your place in it. If only they knew what it was like to notice you’re being treated very differently by your friends, but you have no idea why. If only they knew how crappy it felt to try to tell your Mom about something hard that happened to you, but you just couldn’t find the words to make her understand. If only they knew what it was like to feel out of place and misunderstood ALL THE TIME. And yet, she is still brave enough to approach people and ask to play. She steps out into uncharted waters every day because somewhere in the core of her being, she gets that relationships are important. If only they saw her bravery.
CAN WE ALL JUST AGREE ON SOMETHING?
Every last one of us is in process. Every last one of us requires an unreasonable amount of patience from someone in our life. There is nothing reasonable at all about being human. We are all learning something. We are all bad at something.
What if we just embraced it? What if we kicked shame to the curb and wore our imperfections on our sleeves instead of belittling each other for them and trying to hide? Imagine how much growth could happen if someone were just willing to say, “You are not too much. I love watching you learn. Let me help. Let me stand next to you. YOU ARE NOT A BURDEN.”
Imagine how that could changes our kids’ lives. Our spouses lives. Our friends’ lives.
I am declaring this family and our home a safe place to be imperfect. A place where you don’t have to get it right the first time or the tenth time. We will keep working at it together, and you’d better not think less of yourself when you take a little longer than most to learn this or that. You had better be kind to yourself when you make mistakes.
You don’t have to perform to be accepted.
You don’t have to prove anything to be loved.
You matter because you showed up! You’re here, and you’re on purpose.
You are a joy, a masterpiece, and a delight.
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