The first book I ever read about raising a blind child now resides
in a landfill somewhere. I tried to set it on fire but it didn’t even
have the decency to burn well. The only incendiary fluid I had in the
house was olive oil and I didn’t want to risk a massive grease fire
during Gabriel’s naptime.
There might have been some great information in that book. I wouldn’t know, never made it past the introduction chapter. The author (let’s call her Schlomo) decided to open her book (let’s call it ‘Piece of Crap with Yellow Cover’) with a story that I’ll summarize for you now:
Say that your life’s dream is to take a vacation to Paris. You’ve scrimped and saved for years. You have miniature models of the Eiffel Tower on the dashboard of your car, eat croissants by the bushel and wear scarves with wild abandon. You’ve named your dog Napoleon and think that Gérard Depardieu is the best actor in the whole wide world. Finally, you have managed to plan your vacation and are on the plane to Paris. Your little Francophile heart is shuddering with happy anticipation as the plane touches down….in Amsterdam.
That’s the brilliant analogy Schlomo came up with for the way a parent feels when they have a child with a disability. She went on to suggest that, while you feel crushing disappointment about reaching the wrong destination, you should stop for a moment and appreciate how nice it is in Amsterdam. Holland, after all, is lovely. They have windmills. And tulips. And wooden shoes. And really tall, blonde people. And legalized marijuana and prostitution. And Gouda Cheese. Schlomo presumes that you will suck it up, turn your frown upside down and happily stomp through the tulips in your clogs, smoking weed and windmill gazing with your new friend the giant flaxen-haired hooker. Perhaps, at times, you’ll lament you fate and feel very sad because what you got wasn’t at all what you wanted, but then you’ll remember that you haven’t even tried the cheese yet.
Naturally, Schlomo assumes you are a moron, incapable of calling your travel agent and pointing out their geographical confusion. Maybe Schlomo doesn’t know that there’s a train that can take you from Holland to France in less than three hours. More likely, Schlomo wrote her book based on information she’d garnered from other books as opposed to real life.
I can tell you right now that Schlomo does not have a blind kid at home. She never stayed up late into the night imagining all the horrors that lurk in the unwavering darkness. She never woke up in a cold sweat, stricken with the sudden, insane vision of her son, missing a step on the sidewalk and falling into incoming traffic. She never cried, because of an amazing sunset her child couldn’t share. She never laughed her ass off because her kid somehow became convinced that he was purple. She’s never walked in my shoes. If she had she would have realized that her analogy sucks.
Having a disabled child is nothing at all like getting screwed out of going to France. It’s a battle, in a war, where the enemies are unconquerable and surrounding you on every side. These faceless foes come in many forms; A school system that doesn’t support your child’s needs, friends who ditch you because they don’t know what to say, people who point and stare. That’s not even mentioning the actual parenting. Mental exhaustion is an enemy of mine. Gabriel asks me 1,572 questions every day and twice that many on Sunday.
Mommy, why are people’s butts different sizes?
Mommy, what would it sound like if people were made of metal?
Mommy, are you sure I’m not purple?
Mommy, what is the sky like? Tell me everything you know about it.
Mommy, where’s that thing I like – the one I was playing with a week and a half ago. It was a Tuesday. I like that thing, where’s that thing?
Mommy, is this a power strip? Can I play with it?
Mommy, really? I’m not purple?
Mommy, who’s talking? Is that a man or a woman? A woman? She sounds like a man. Does she have a penis?
Sometimes, the machine gun rapidity of these questions leave me longing for a nice, quiet room somewhere. An insane asylum, most likely.
I’m very lucky. The battles I wage is small compared to the ones some parents must fight. My kid is only blind. He has no other developmental problems. I worked with a severely autistic child in my youth and it was the most challenging job I’ve ever had in my life. After our sessions, I would be completely wiped out and sad, feeling like I’d made no progress with him at all. Our sessions were for three hours twice a week. His parent’s sessions were every moment, of every day. They cared for their son with grace and tenderness. They never gave up on him, though he was very difficult to manage at times.
His mother broke down in front of me one day. She and her husband had no other close family and she knew, one day, when she was too old to care for him, her son would have to be institutionalized. She was fighting a battle she knew she’d never win. The best she could do, was keep the enemies away, for as long as she could. I’m fairly certain she would have hated Schlomo’s vacation snafu analogy as much as I do.
So, all those years ago, after I threw my mildly charred, copy of ‘Piece of Crap with Yellow Cover’ in the cover in the garbage, I called my best friend. I told her what I’d read. Without missing a beat she said, “What a silly woman. That story makes absolutely no sense at all. It’s like comparing apples and Army Tanks. Everyone knows that God gives the most special kids to the people he trusts the most.”
Over the years her simple words have comforted me time and time again. I believe her, I was chosen by whatever divine force works in the universe. When I doubt myself, I remember that God doesn’t. My child is not a badly executed vacation. He’s a blessing. Suck that, Schlomo.
There might have been some great information in that book. I wouldn’t know, never made it past the introduction chapter. The author (let’s call her Schlomo) decided to open her book (let’s call it ‘Piece of Crap with Yellow Cover’) with a story that I’ll summarize for you now:
Say that your life’s dream is to take a vacation to Paris. You’ve scrimped and saved for years. You have miniature models of the Eiffel Tower on the dashboard of your car, eat croissants by the bushel and wear scarves with wild abandon. You’ve named your dog Napoleon and think that Gérard Depardieu is the best actor in the whole wide world. Finally, you have managed to plan your vacation and are on the plane to Paris. Your little Francophile heart is shuddering with happy anticipation as the plane touches down….in Amsterdam.
That’s the brilliant analogy Schlomo came up with for the way a parent feels when they have a child with a disability. She went on to suggest that, while you feel crushing disappointment about reaching the wrong destination, you should stop for a moment and appreciate how nice it is in Amsterdam. Holland, after all, is lovely. They have windmills. And tulips. And wooden shoes. And really tall, blonde people. And legalized marijuana and prostitution. And Gouda Cheese. Schlomo presumes that you will suck it up, turn your frown upside down and happily stomp through the tulips in your clogs, smoking weed and windmill gazing with your new friend the giant flaxen-haired hooker. Perhaps, at times, you’ll lament you fate and feel very sad because what you got wasn’t at all what you wanted, but then you’ll remember that you haven’t even tried the cheese yet.
Naturally, Schlomo assumes you are a moron, incapable of calling your travel agent and pointing out their geographical confusion. Maybe Schlomo doesn’t know that there’s a train that can take you from Holland to France in less than three hours. More likely, Schlomo wrote her book based on information she’d garnered from other books as opposed to real life.
I can tell you right now that Schlomo does not have a blind kid at home. She never stayed up late into the night imagining all the horrors that lurk in the unwavering darkness. She never woke up in a cold sweat, stricken with the sudden, insane vision of her son, missing a step on the sidewalk and falling into incoming traffic. She never cried, because of an amazing sunset her child couldn’t share. She never laughed her ass off because her kid somehow became convinced that he was purple. She’s never walked in my shoes. If she had she would have realized that her analogy sucks.
Having a disabled child is nothing at all like getting screwed out of going to France. It’s a battle, in a war, where the enemies are unconquerable and surrounding you on every side. These faceless foes come in many forms; A school system that doesn’t support your child’s needs, friends who ditch you because they don’t know what to say, people who point and stare. That’s not even mentioning the actual parenting. Mental exhaustion is an enemy of mine. Gabriel asks me 1,572 questions every day and twice that many on Sunday.
Mommy, why are people’s butts different sizes?
Mommy, what would it sound like if people were made of metal?
Mommy, are you sure I’m not purple?
Mommy, what is the sky like? Tell me everything you know about it.
Mommy, where’s that thing I like – the one I was playing with a week and a half ago. It was a Tuesday. I like that thing, where’s that thing?
Mommy, is this a power strip? Can I play with it?
Mommy, really? I’m not purple?
Mommy, who’s talking? Is that a man or a woman? A woman? She sounds like a man. Does she have a penis?
Sometimes, the machine gun rapidity of these questions leave me longing for a nice, quiet room somewhere. An insane asylum, most likely.
I’m very lucky. The battles I wage is small compared to the ones some parents must fight. My kid is only blind. He has no other developmental problems. I worked with a severely autistic child in my youth and it was the most challenging job I’ve ever had in my life. After our sessions, I would be completely wiped out and sad, feeling like I’d made no progress with him at all. Our sessions were for three hours twice a week. His parent’s sessions were every moment, of every day. They cared for their son with grace and tenderness. They never gave up on him, though he was very difficult to manage at times.
His mother broke down in front of me one day. She and her husband had no other close family and she knew, one day, when she was too old to care for him, her son would have to be institutionalized. She was fighting a battle she knew she’d never win. The best she could do, was keep the enemies away, for as long as she could. I’m fairly certain she would have hated Schlomo’s vacation snafu analogy as much as I do.
So, all those years ago, after I threw my mildly charred, copy of ‘Piece of Crap with Yellow Cover’ in the cover in the garbage, I called my best friend. I told her what I’d read. Without missing a beat she said, “What a silly woman. That story makes absolutely no sense at all. It’s like comparing apples and Army Tanks. Everyone knows that God gives the most special kids to the people he trusts the most.”
Over the years her simple words have comforted me time and time again. I believe her, I was chosen by whatever divine force works in the universe. When I doubt myself, I remember that God doesn’t. My child is not a badly executed vacation. He’s a blessing. Suck that, Schlomo.
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