Do you want me to tell you it’s all sunshine and rainbows? It’s not—but there is a lot of that. I really don’t think you can enjoy the full extent of the sunshine without the rain, though. And can you really see all the colors of the rainbow without a cloudy backdrop?
I’m writing this, yet you can’t truly know it without living it. You can’t really appreciate those words—those emails, all in lowercase letters—and see how cute they are. How wonderful they are, without knowing the story of getting there.
He won’t be a rocket scientist, but he offers so much to this world: so much joy, song, and surprise.
He gets to ride shotgun in everyone’s car. He expects to be the shining star, and that’s exactly what he deserves.
My husband asked once, “Shouldn’t he just be treated like everyone else?” But no, he is not like everyone else. And why does that have to be a bad thing? Can’t it be wonderful? Can’t his differences wake us up to see things we haven’t seen before? What is normal, and why do we cherish it so? Because it makes us comfortable? Because we don’t have to look at things through a new lens?
He is spectacular in his way of being. He is delayed cognitively, but does that mean his worth is less? What of all the value that he does share? What of the all the value that he does give?
I work with a student who scripts all the time. When I jump in on those scripts, it’s the best thing ever. It’s like I jumped on the tidal wave in this student’s mind—a wave that is always going and flowing—and I’m going and flowing right along with him. Isn’t that what communication really is: a form of connection? So what if his is scripting Finding Nemo? That feeling of connection, of being on the same wavelength, is more powerful than any “normal” words could ever convey.
In a world that is so tech-driven, we need these connections. We need them all the time anyway, but these individuals help us see outside of ourselves—to get out of our own way. Yet we fight so hard for our own way, for our own way of thinking. Now, I’m fighting for my son’s way of thinking. His thinking holds no fight, though; it’s full of song, love, and hugs. It’s full of togetherness and singing Kumbaya by the fire.
Couldn’t we all use a little more of that right now?
