My Child Is Not Your 'Teachable Moment'
We're perched at a rectangular, kid's-size table in the art room of an indoor play gym, and she is painting a collection of methodically selected picture print-outs. Embracing her focus and age-appropriate activity - ephemeral as it will be - I attentively respond to her endless, artistic demands like an attendant in an operating room. I don't want to break the spell.Her word approximations erupt loudly, jumbly and jolty: "Wa du"..."On-ch"..."hep." Instinctively, I know to present water for her paintbrush; fresh, orange paint; and the help she wants un-sticking her painted papers - all the while, rewarding and validating my autistic, apraxic child's emerging language and articulation.
A younger boy enters, maybe around 4 or 5, his mom by his side. (I know this because be calls her "mom" with the startlingly perfect clarity and tone that sucker-punches me every time. It shouldn't surprise me to hear children half her age orating like rock stars, but somehow it still does.)
I'm not particularly interested in playing room "host" today - especially since my girl is so involved in our little activity - but the other lady looks dazed and confused. So summoning my bubbly, supermom voice, I address the kid: "Do you want to share paints? Here's some paper and markers. Do you like trucks? I saw a truck page right over there."I reluctantly glance at his mom, anticipating a friendly, grateful smile, even a slight nod...but strangely, she's just staring at us, expressionless.
The little boy flops down opposite us at the kiddy table, while "mom" continues to just stand there, about two-feet away - perhaps where I'd be if parenting my daughter didn't require such a high-alert, hands-on approach. (Still doubt it, though.) Anyway, she's just sort of loitering there, without even a cell phone or book (which would have made more sense to me), and her kid starts coloring or painting or whatever. My daughter and I return to our own little routine of demand, supply, and apraxic charades.
After a minute or two, the boy stops painting, looks up at me, and proclaims (as if he's made a strange, new discovery): "She talks funny."
Well, this hardly is my first time hearing that comment, especially from a child. And I much prefer this announcement-type acknowledgement over those kids who tend to back away with hostile stares or smirking, giggly friends. Either way, I'm used to other children not knowing quite what to make of my little Goldilocks. *Sigh.*
So I glance at the mom, expecting her to jump on this "teachable moment," or provide a reaction of some kind, most likely mimicking one of these three responses:
- "That's rude!" (Hopefully not followed by this parenting gem I heard once: "Maybe she can't speak, you know, like how you're terrible at soccer.")
- A kinder but uncertain dialogue about people's strengths and weaknesses, followed by a quick escape.
- A nervous, affirmative nod, which basically means: "Sure, lady. You take this one."
So, I go into my well-honed "she talks funny" elevator speech for kids, trying to include my daughter in the interaction.
"Well, it's actually really difficult for her to talk, but she sounds that way because she's trying so hard. ('Right, Sweetie?') She understands you, though, and she's just like other kids. In fact, she also knows some sign language and uses an iPad to help her talk too. I'm sure she'd show you if you want."The kid is satisfied with my explanation, and returns to his truck-painting, his mom apparently pretending she's wearing an invisibility cloak. My daughter proceeds to bark-ask for the blue marker.
***
Instigated by this oddly detached helicopter mother-person, my stream of consciousnesses indulges in a rant session:- Why should I have to explain my daughter to her child?
- How is it okay for anyone to refer to my child as "she" - when she's sitting right here?
- How does it feel for my child to constantly hear comments like this?
We, as adults, realize that a person probably doesn't want to be called bald or fat in public. We probably learned it ourselves from a very-special-talk our own parents had with us after we embarrassed them in the grocery store or bank.
So why is it so hard to understand that comments like "she talks funny" also can be hurtful?
I've been down this path before, with my son who has cerebral palsy. We jokingly call him "best case scenario" because he is relatively mildly affected. Yet, kids said it all the time RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM -"he walks funny"- as if an awkward gait made him unable to have feelings. I once even witnessed a child imitating his walk TO HER MOM. And guess who had to jump in with an awareness and tolerance message while the mom just giggled - without even ONE WORD acknowledging that it might be inappropriate, to say the least. (The mother got an entirely different public service message in the form of fiery daggers shooting from my eyes!)
That same mom would be mortified if her child announced to a peer's mother, "he dresses funny." That would compute. That would elicit a very-special-talk.
I know that kids are kids, and they usually mean nothing by it. I'm actually glad that they are interested in understanding and interacting with my child. Most kids are initially curious, and generally kind, if not inclusive.
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| Image Courtesy of Rob Bonneywell |
But then some are not. And you know what? My children - who might "talk funny" and "walk funny" - aren't rare, extinct creatures only found in exotic locales (like the art room). Are these children being raised in such a homogeneous, sheltered environment that my kids induce them into some state of cultural shock?
In today's flat, diverse world, we can do better.
At what point, at what age, does it become a parent's responsibility to proactively introduce these values to their children...instead of waiting for that "teachable moment," aka my child?
I have no interest in being your one-woman PSA. My pithy elementary-school speech on awareness, differences and tolerance can't change the world in 30 seconds. I fear, however, that my kids' self-esteem could be decimated in less.
