"Why?" I can't tell you how many times I hear this during the course of a day. It just rolls sweetly off Bekkah's tongue like silk. Most of the time it's just a habit, like clicking the top of a ball-point pen. You aren't really aware you're doing it, it just becomes automatic. I can usually have an answer for her when she asks, no matter how many times. Sometimes my husband makes up things just to get her out of her rhythm. But today, I just can't answer her question.
It's hard enough to explain to our two typically developing teenagers how the economy has affected our education system. But how do I explain to my daughter why her science teacher--who fully embraced Bekkah's participation in her classroom--won't be there next year, neither will the high school special ed teacher she sees on a daily basis during adaptive PE? My daughter just lost two amazing teachers this past week as part of a drastic measure to reduce the county's education debt of reportedly $3.5 million. We lost a total of 35 highly qualified teachers throughout the school district and will have a four-day school week starting in the fall. To make matters worse, Bekkah's middle school special ed teacher hasn't been guaranteed that she will get to stay, that she may have to fill the vacancy at the high school. It drives me crazy that our kids aren't considered in these formulas for cutting the budget. Kids with special needs have the most difficulty transitioning through unexpected changes.
I am very fortunate to live in a county--and in a time--when kids with special needs are more accepted than ever. I accompanied Bekkah on a recent overnight field trip where I witnessed firsthand the genuine love and acceptance her peers have for her. The middle and high schools have a club called Friends Helping Friends. Eighth graders and above volunteer to help in the special ed classrooms, organize an annual field day, and sponsor special outings... and new this year, they sponsored a dance for them during school hours. All the kids loved it, special or not. Of course, I think all the kids in this club are special in their own right.
So how does a culture of acceptance get totally missed by administration? "Why?"
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Blessings in Disguise
You know that time in your life in your early twenties when you're pondering life and wondering what your purpose is in this world? It seems you have more time to spare than you know what to do with, and you're searching for that A-HA! moment to send you in a direction. I remember that time very clearly. Going from interest to interest, feeling empty, wanting something but not sure exactly what that was.
Flash back to 1973. Ms. Lilly was my babysitter the first four years of my life. As a porcelain artist, she was often engrossed in her handiwork, and sometimes her eyes were not always on the three or four kids she was charged to watch. One day her daughter Deborah made a fun game of chasing the children around the yard. Deborah towered over us toddlers like a giant, and her lumbering non-rhythmic gait made her unpredictable. I remember hiding behind Ms. Lilly's apron, then she would gently tell Deborah to not chase us any more.
Then there was mild-mannered Brian who rode my bus in middle school. The other boys picked on him, and I despised them for it, but I didn't know how to react. I've always felt guilty that I was frozen to react or defend Brian.
Other than these two people, who I am certain provided profound changes in perspective for their families, I never knew anyone else who was "special." But like most folks, when you are on the outside looking in, you have difficulty getting past the exterior and looking at the person. This had been my perspective, until 13 years ago.
Now, every time I look at my daughter, I think, "Yes, this is my purpose. I remember." I have to be honest, sometimes that thought is followed by, "Lord, help me." But then I smile and look at Bekkah's face. When she's sleeping I still see the tiny, fragile baby we brought home from the hospital. In a lot of ways, she's still that innocent child. Other days, well, I wonder how on earth she comes up with some of her ideas. She knows more than I give her credit for, and when you think she's not paying attention... well, look out, because she'll surprise you. The diagnosis of Down syndrome was terrifying at first and a bit overwhelming. Once we got through the shock and into the stage of accepting the facts, we were able to open our eyes to who our daughter was and who she could become.
Bekkah is the most loving and forgiving person I've ever known. She'd rather offer the olive branch first than have you be mad. She's never met a stranger, and her hugs are limitless to whoever needs them. She was meant to be in my life and to be my purpose.
But I wasn't counting on how absolutely undeserving I am of that purpose. She is my gift.
For anyone who has ever known the unconditional love of someone with special needs, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't, I am sharing my gift with you. Stay tuned.
Flash back to 1973. Ms. Lilly was my babysitter the first four years of my life. As a porcelain artist, she was often engrossed in her handiwork, and sometimes her eyes were not always on the three or four kids she was charged to watch. One day her daughter Deborah made a fun game of chasing the children around the yard. Deborah towered over us toddlers like a giant, and her lumbering non-rhythmic gait made her unpredictable. I remember hiding behind Ms. Lilly's apron, then she would gently tell Deborah to not chase us any more.
Then there was mild-mannered Brian who rode my bus in middle school. The other boys picked on him, and I despised them for it, but I didn't know how to react. I've always felt guilty that I was frozen to react or defend Brian.
Other than these two people, who I am certain provided profound changes in perspective for their families, I never knew anyone else who was "special." But like most folks, when you are on the outside looking in, you have difficulty getting past the exterior and looking at the person. This had been my perspective, until 13 years ago.
Now, every time I look at my daughter, I think, "Yes, this is my purpose. I remember." I have to be honest, sometimes that thought is followed by, "Lord, help me." But then I smile and look at Bekkah's face. When she's sleeping I still see the tiny, fragile baby we brought home from the hospital. In a lot of ways, she's still that innocent child. Other days, well, I wonder how on earth she comes up with some of her ideas. She knows more than I give her credit for, and when you think she's not paying attention... well, look out, because she'll surprise you. The diagnosis of Down syndrome was terrifying at first and a bit overwhelming. Once we got through the shock and into the stage of accepting the facts, we were able to open our eyes to who our daughter was and who she could become.
Bekkah is the most loving and forgiving person I've ever known. She'd rather offer the olive branch first than have you be mad. She's never met a stranger, and her hugs are limitless to whoever needs them. She was meant to be in my life and to be my purpose.
But I wasn't counting on how absolutely undeserving I am of that purpose. She is my gift.
For anyone who has ever known the unconditional love of someone with special needs, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't, I am sharing my gift with you. Stay tuned.
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