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Scenes of Acceptance My husband and I settled into our chairs and sipped our hot coffee. The meeting was starting late. Our eyes stared straight ahead at the speaker, a man named Dennis who worked for the Maryland Department of Education. He kept checking his watch, waiting for the stragglers to take their seats. The brochure in my hand explained that Dennis was a specialist in the area of “transition planning and anticipated services” for handicapped children. Parents of a specials needs child have to plan for the future of their child, before that child reaches eighteen. My husband and I were here because we didn’t know where to begin in planning for our daughter Rachal’s future needs. As he waited, Dennis went over some of his notes. He stopped to pull his reading glasses out of his front pocket, and our eyes met. His eyes were gentle, and I liked him immediately. But I still have my doubts. Had he ever watched his own daughter have a seizure? Had he ever applied for a handicapped parking permit and under “reason for permit” had to state that his daughter was mentally challenged? My chair was getting hard under me. I shifted uncomfortably as the meeting began. Dennis spoke about the legislation that was in process for our children’s financial benefit. He discussed placing our children in group homes. He gave statistics about our children’s possible futures in the job market. I realized that Dennis did not have a special needs child of his own, but he had devoted his life to working for children like mine. Dennis spoke with authority and compassion, trying to make me look at issues I had been avoiding. Of course, I knew that someday I would need to consider Rachal’s future. But was that time now? She was only seven years old. This total stranger was challenging me with questions that I was still afraid to ask myself. Where will Rachal live as an adult? What job could she hold? Who will help her learn about the world around her when I am gone? In ten years, she is not going to be a little girl anymore, but a young woman who will need a place to live, work and grow. It was getting late and I wanted to get home to put Rachal and our two other children to bed. Gathering up my belongings, I suggested to my husband that we leave. Tears were stinging my eyes as we walked out together. I said, “I didn’t volunteer for this.” A week later, I had one quick errand to do at the mall. I had Rachal and her brother Joshua, three years old, with me. I broke my own personal rule: never bring a special needs child to the open air of the mall, unless you have help from another adult. But I could not resist the convenience of just stopping in. This time will be different, I told myself. Rachal will be fine and I will be in and out in no time. I should never break my own personal rule. We were passing a shoe store when Rachal’s eyes caught sight of the men’s size twelve purple sneakers on the display rack. She stopped. She looked. She said, “Purple shoes!” In two seconds flat Rachal was on the run with stolen shoes. As the bell began ringing to warn that merchandise has been taken outside the store limits, I grabbed up Joshua and our belongings. The saleswoman asked me if I needed any help. I pleaded with her not to get upset and promised I would be right back. As I raced after Rachal, I mouthed a prayer. Please do not let this struggle be too upsetting. Please help her transition through this easily. She had run a good distance and was slowing down. Joshua was heavy in my arms and screaming that I was holding him too tight. I felt the looks of strangers, judging me, and I lost control. Breathing heavily, I grabbed the sneakers away from Rachal and held onto her arm, never letting go of Joshua. We stumbled back to the shoe store. Rachal was a wreck and Joshua was sobbing. I wanted to disappear. I gave the sales woman the shoes and headed toward the mall exit. A security officer walked up to me as I struggled to pick Rachal up off the floor for the tenth time. He looked at my face and did not know whether to help me or run from me. “I didn’t volunteer for this!” I shouted. Our family attends a congregation. At our worship service last Saturday, Rachal was clapping and smiling at the musicians as the contemporary music flowed from their instruments. She did not know the words, but felt their power. She could not coordinate her body to dance, but clapped her hands until they were red. Rachal uses sign language when she cannot retrieve the words from her mind. She signed to me that she needed to go to the bathroom. We left the room filled with music and prayer. When we opened the restroom door, we found ourselves surrounded by six little girls, all about Rachal’s age, lined up in a row looking at themselves in the mirror. Each girl held a brush, a comb or lip gloss. They were talking excitedly about their Bible class – who they were going to sit next to and which teacher was volunteering that morning. I stood back and watched Rachal’s reaction to the girls. I would love to have known what she was thinking about that very moment. Her eyes were fixed upon those girls and she had a slight smile on her lips. She has never brushed her own hair, due to sensory issues; it was usually a struggle for me to get her to stand still so I could try. After Rachal finished in the stall, the girls parted for us. As I helped her wash her hands, she looked up at me in the mirror and said “Your bewtiful mama.” And just to make sure I heard her, she signed the word beautiful to me. I thought to myself, if only you knew how unaware I was before having you; you might not think I am so beautiful. Before you, I expected to have society’s image of a perfect family, to be a perfect wife and to produce perfect children. That unreal world was shattered after having you, when I began the painful transition to this real world. You have peeled off the layers of my insecurity, vanity and self-centeredness. No I didn’t volunteer for this. But together as a family, Rachal, we will find the strength to plan your future, and give you the best life we can offer. SAW
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