by Meg Murry at Respectfully Connected
There’s
been talk of walking in other people’s shoes again. These shoes have
trod upon children, trampled them, and yet. If we’d only walk in those
shoes for a day, it’s said, we’d understand.
Well,
I won’t walk in those shoes. I won’t try them on for size. Many would
have you believe it was the children who put their parents’ feet in
those shoes, but that is a lie. We all choose our shoes.
Here, try on mine. Walk in my shoes with me for a moment, will you?
Walk
with me back to a cold winter’s day over five years ago, in a hospital
room, here, where I give birth for the first time. Walk with me to the
moment that I become a mother, the moment that I first meet my son. This
birth didn’t unfold exactly the way I planned, but none of that matters
as I reach out for him, hold his slippery body in two hands and bring
him to my chest.
We
meet each other’s eyes. I recognize that my role in making him has come
to a beautiful conclusion: he is perfectly and wonderfully made. He is
as complete a person as I am, and now my role is to care for him.
Walk
with me now to our warm little home, and lie down with me on the floor
of my baby’s new bedroom. We stretch out together in a big swath of
sunlight pouring through tall windows. Blankets are spread across the
hardwoods, and a few toys are scattered around for him. There’s one that
he especially likes, a brightly colored musical toy he can operate by
himself, pressing a large button to activate a little song accompanied
by flashing colored lights. He pushes himself up on his chest, watching
with an expression of wonder, then sinks down to bring it toward his
mouth and suck on the handle happily.
Again and again he plays the song and smiles. I watch him and feel a quiet joy.
Let’s
walk forward another year or so. Charles is a toddler and walks around
well; he’s a busy boy, always exploring. I keep plastic bowls and food
containers in low cabinets so he can pull them all out and play, which
he does often. As when he was just a baby, I admire his curiosity and
inquisitive nature. I enjoy watching him investigate his world and his
methods make sense to me.
He
likes to turn on and off light switches. At home this is fun, when we
go out it keeps me on my toes - people don’t always think it’s cute. A
librarian yells at me when he flicks the switches before I can stop him.
At friends’ houses, people start to question me, their smiles a bit
forced. “Does he always do this?” This is the very first time I realize
Charles might be different from other children. But then other people
tell me, “Oh, all little boys like to do that. They grow out of it.” I
decide to believe them, though somewhere in the back of my mind, I
wonder, “why should he?”
Walk
with me now to the following year, but let’s walk faster - this passage
is dark and I don’t want to linger here. This is where a family member
tells me that Charles needs either an autism evaluation or just a good
spanking. This is where we where we try the evaluations and testing
while he tries to hide and run away. This is where I google “autism” by
day and find nothing but fear and dread in the page results; this is
where by night I stay up too late trying not to think of tomorrow, or of
anything at all.
This
is where I follow the advice of people who don’t understand, putting
Charles in time outs when he most needs me, putting him through classes
he hates, for “socialization,” pushing him fearfully toward
developmental milestones so that he won’t fall “behind.” I stay his
hands from the light switches. I put away his musical light-up toy. I
have another baby now, I go through the motions of caring for two
children, but I am lost.
Look
here as you walk with me: we’ve come to a fork in the road now. To the
left, the path is darker still - as dark as night. The forest is thick
and obscures the way. As we stand at the entrance to this road we hear
parents crying out from the trees, grieving. We hear whispered words
that raise goosebumps all over our skin: Symptoms. Intervention.
Compliance. With one foot on this path, I try to take Charles’s hand,
but he’s just out of reach.
No. That’s not the way.
Look
here again with me at the fork in the road. There’s another path on the
right. There, the sun shines over a meadow. I hear in the distance
there is laughter and singing, the sounds of children playing. I gather
my sons to me again, Charles takes my hand. Walk with me, this way.
We
are walking with others now. The other parents here walk with a gait
that’s at once careful and easy. For a time I let them lead, and then I
walk beside them. We are friends. I see myself in them, and they in me.
New people join us, following this path. Our children run free,
barefooted, spinning, climbing, flapping, laughing. There are no
milestones here, only growth. There are no interventions here, only
encouragement. There is no compliance here, only freedom.
This
is where I draw close again to my firstborn child, and give him back
the sense of self that I wrongly tried to steal, on that other road -
that dark place that I’m quickly, mercifully forgetting. This is where I
pull Charles out of school, and say no thank you to further testing and
evaluations. This is where I stretch out beside him on the floor again,
to see what he sees.
This
is where my husband and I nourish Charles’s interests, bringing him to
hardware stores to look at light fixtures. We notice light fixtures
everywhere and take pictures to show him later. This is where Charles
becomes friends with his brother Sandy. And it is where I draw closer to
Sandy too, because it’s safe to open my heart here. This is where, as
it happens, I find my own self. Here among friends.
I
want to show you, on this walk, that your child is not your
circumstance, they are a person. They don’t put your shoes on for you;
only you can do that, by choosing the values that will serve as your
foundation. The fork in the road is before you whenever you choose to
see it there. You can always take the other path.
Walk with us, will you?