Landscaper! There's a Weed in My Sod: Why We Need Inclusion in Classrooms and Community

Note:  I wrote this several years ago and had originally posted it at my now defunct Educollab blog.  Special acknowledgement to Alec Couros @courosa who shared this video which inspired this post.   I decided to republish this after seeing the Autism Speaks celebration at Kid O's high school.  Rewatching this video by AM Baggs, I continue to be struck by her strong concluding statement:  ,"Only when the many shapes of personhood are recognized will justice and human rights be possible."  This is what we all must strive for.

Waiter! There's a fly in my soup! What's a fly doing in my soup?

Looks like it's doing the backstroke.

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The homeowner is explaining to the decorator and head of landscape team what colors he wants his rooms painted. Outside the team is putting down sod. As they enter each room the homeowner turns to the decorator and says, "I want this room to be painted (insert color here.) The decorator, instead of acknowledging what his client just said, shouts out the window, "Green side up!" This continues room after room after room. Finally the peeved homeowner turns to the decorator. "Have you heard anything I said? I keep telling you my color preferences, and instead of acknowledging them, you keep shouting out the window, "Green side up! Why is that?" The decorator reddens. "I am so sorry, sir. I have been taking notes. If I do not keep shouting green side up out the window, there's a chance that the (insert derogatory slur for ethnic or racial group of your choice or offensive term like "retard") will not remember to set the sod the right side up."

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I have been engaged in doing my usual proto-gardening, as I call it. I have been removing dead leaves and other debris that have been covering the ground. I established two new garden spots last fall, so this is especially important. Much as I love winter, I need to do this out of anticipation of new growth. I get anxious to see, what, if any, of the bulbs I planted the previous fall are starting to come out of the ground. I call it, "coaxing out the green." It's a sacred time for me as my world shifts from darkness to light. When I see a tiny bud start to poke out of the ground, I very painstakingly uncover a bit more soil and remove any debris around the tiny plants. They are not my plants. They belong really to Mother Earth. I treat each tiny thing with a great deal of reverence. "Welcome to the world," I whisper. And, yet, when I see a blade of grass or a tiny bit of clover, I yank it. I have no qualms about yanking gill o'er the ground, as wonderful as it smells, since it would crowd out the rest in no time at all. It is, as gardeners would say, an invasive species. Not to be confused with non-native, which is a different thing altogether.

This past week, as I have been clearing out my garden spots, I have also been haunted by In My Language
written and acted and produced by A M Baggs. I forced myself to watch this three, four, five times, even as I feel myself recoil at another human being who is so very different from me. She is noisy. She moves. A lot. She offends my sensibilities which desire stillness of action and quietness of mind. Every time I watch I want to shout, "stop, stop, stop!" Her perpetual interaction with her environment just about exhausts me. And, yet, in the end, my heart centered self manages to feel empathy, something that I suspect would seem really ridiculous to her and possibly even mistaken for pity. She would probably be just as baffled by my emotional connection to my world as I am by her endless movement. In the end when A M Baggs asserts,"Only when the many shapes of personhood are recognized will justice and human rights be possible," I am thrown back on my heels. She expresses exactly what I have felt about why kids like Kid O, the child of my heart, need to be included. Both profoundly autistic people as well as severely physically disabled people are labeled as non-persons. So even if A M Baggs wouldn't get my emotions and perhaps be repelled by them, she would understand my desire for others in school and in the community at large to accept my daughter as fully human.
None of us are weeds to be disposed of. We all form an intricate part of the educational ecosystem. We all have our loud humanity that demands attention. And care. And understanding. As we slide into the charter school chasm, we need to remember how individuals make up a community. If gifted children are not exposed to kids like Kid O, then we run the risk of teaching these children that only kids like them deserve a quality education. Kids who attend charter schools may be a racially and religiously and culturally diverse group. But there are certainly no weeds. No intellectual eyesores. Poor tester that I am, it is doubtful even I would find my way to a charter school let alone my beloved Kid O.


When the first ed psychologist placed his stamp on Kid O, he essentially denied her not only a place in a classroom, but a place in the community as well. When the advocate who was helping me, in a nominal way, try to advocate for Kid O's rightful place, he told me that since she couldn't speak, perhaps their assessment was right. I knew he had a special needs son who had received assistive technology. I asked him if this was "I've got mine and the hell with you." He paused. Then he apologized. All along he had been discarding my observations and implicitly siding with people at the school. Because she couldn't speak, he was dismissing Kid O's humanity, sight unseen, perpetuating the narrow definition of who is human and who is not.

Excluding people on the basis of whether or not they had received the gift of speech was never acceptable. With technology it is now inexcusable. It is also inexcusable no to be openminded enough to be generous of heart and spirit. AM Baggs is right. When we do not take the time to learn how someone else is in the world, we do not give them human rights. Should not be easy to deny someone else's humanity. We do that when we label people instead of interacting with them. We do that when we call someone by their disability instead of by their name. Kid O is not cerebral palsy. She is Kid O. We do not do anyone a kindness when we shrug and say, "Oh, that is just them. Just who they are." When we do that, we give them an unacceptable out and us along with them. It is then that we can justify placing one child in Special Ed and one child in the gifted program. I have known kids with CP who have been kept out of gifted programs. They are kept out, not because of lack of demonstrable intellect, but because they are not ablebodied. What impact does being able to walk have on whether or not a person can read or is capable of critical thinking? None. And yet we use disability as a reason to exclude all the time. Would John Milton be rejected from the gifted program? Would Helen Keller?

When we place all the gifted kids into charter schools with the sole aim of preparing them for an Ivy League education, we do them a disservice. We are practicing a form of reverse segregation. Now I am not even remotely suggesting that kids like Kid O belong in the same classroom. But they should at least be in the same building. There is a charter school less than a block away from where Kid O attends school, and `yet those kids and Kid O may as well be worlds apart. It's unlikely their paths will ever cross.

When we segregate gifted kids from the rest of the population, we keep them from learning from people of all abilities and all walks of life. We cheat them out of a life that is richer and fuller because we give them the message, implicitly or explicitly, that "you are better than them," and so close off so many possibilities for many different encounters and interactions. We also do not prepare them adequately for certain curveballs that may be thrown their way. Would they know how to cope with life's disappointments? I am not so sure, when the pressure is for them to succeed at all costs.

When we segregate Special Ed kids from the rest of the school population, we do not allow other kids to learn from them. We also do not allow the Special Ed kids to have interactions they may not otherwise have. When we do not allow for the human element to enter into the equation, then we are left with the freak show that A M Baggs talks about. Gifted kids grow up to go to Ivy League schools and great careers and Special Ed kids grow up and end up in sheltered workshops. We are talking about extremes when we should be talking about happy mediums. We should be talking about community. Not that gifted kids shouldn't go to Ivy League schools, but that Special Ed kids should have the opportunity to interact with them and vice versa. These two populations need each other. Together they thrive. One is not better than the other. Just with different strengths and different weaknesses. They could give each other mutual nurturance. They could accept each other's humanity. Love, compassion and acceptance flow both ways.

All kids need community. We all need to feel a sense of belongingness. When we emphasize competition over collaboration, we perpetuate the idea that someone has got to win and someone else has got to lose. We also perpetuate the idea of us versus them. That is a false dichotomy. There is only us. And together we all need to succeed. We need to bring all of us along, regardless of race, religion, disability and how we perceive all of those things. We cannot have human rights for some and not for others. That cannot stand. By the same token, we cannot have educational opportunities for some and not for others. We cannot have life opportunities for some and not for others.

If we had community then all would learn and all would flourish. All would then learn to the best of their abilities, and none would be left out. We have one planet, one community: the community of mankind. If we were to extend what Dr. King said about not being judged by the color of one's skin but by the contents of one's character to also include regardless of disability, then we could have a really strong community where many more people could be more actively a part and not merely living on the fringes.

When gardens are all uniform, they are not as interesting. When communities are more homogeneous, they may lend comfort to those who dwell within, but there is little to recommend them from the outside. There will always be weeds. There will always be people who live on the fringes. But there are also wildflowers which can lend diversity. When we label someone without examining the whole picture, then sometimes students do not get the help they need.

Some of the best people I have known have been weeds. They do not conform to "sod" standards. We lose much in this society when we do not make the effort to know the weeds and to benefit from them. In other cultures, the witch doctor or shaman knows the benefit of weeds. They use different plants for their healing powers. In some cultures, people who are different are revered. Not shunned. A disabled person is not of any less value than a gifted student. Sometimes they are one and the same.

What is this weed doing in my sod? Giving it nuanced beauty, and much needed character.

Dancing Backwards And In Heels: Parenting A Special Needs Child

"And then there's Adult Protective Services," the school nurse said.  "Crazy, huh?"

Crazy, huh. I restrained myself from asking her, "Do you realize what you are saying?"   I don't think that, unlike previous remarks, this was calculated.  I think she was acknowledging that she was just one overzealous mandated reporter in a system that rewards such behavior at the expense of parents like me.   She also mentioned that other school nurses would be worse than her.  If they are, then those of us with special needs kids are in deep trouble.

Parenting is never easy.  There's always things that come up that one would never expect in a million years.  You love your children, but sometimes you want to disavow any knowledge of them.  "That kid?  Never saw her before."  

Parenting a special needs kid, however, is, to borrow a pro feminist slogan, "dancing backwards and in heels.".  A parent with a special needs kid is being scrutinized in a way that a parent of a "normal" child can neither begin to imagine nor be willing to put up with.

From the moment Kid O entered the world, I've been subjected to the worst kind of scrutiny.  Because she was a preemie who weighed only 3 lbs, 10 oz, her birth was reported to the Department of Public Health.  I was terrified when a nurse showed  up.  She was nice about it, but I understood the implication. Underweight premature babies were assumed to be given birth to by mothers who were poor, ignorant, and who hadn't sought out prenatal care, and, in a word: neglectful. 

One day, as I was getting ready to take Kid O on the train to see my folks, two public health nurses, a man and a woman, practically barged through my door. The man would not take "no" for an answer.  I uttered utter a mild protest, stating that the regular public health nurse had told me that she would be the only one coming around.  He told me that that nurse was on vacation.  Even though I knew I had rights, I was afraid to say "no."    Much to my shame and horror, he insisted I hand  over Kid O for a surprise inspection. I watched, speechless, as he took her over to her bassinet and undid her diaper.  It was only after that that I had the wherewithal to call the Department of Public Health and canceled subsequent visits. 

My neighbor, who had had a near perfect homebirth and a nice, large, full term baby,  brought by literature on pre-eclampsia because she felt I needed to  take responsibility for Kid O's prematurity.  She was smug in her knowledge that her expensive birthing class had produced nothing but perfect births and perfect babies.  She was certain she was a far superior mother, so imagine her surprise when she couldn't console Kid O one morning  Months later she apologized to me because one couple in her birthing class had a child with CP, and were being forced out of their condo on account of the baby's screaming.  

Now, granted, it's damned uncomfortable listening to someone whose only means of communicating distress is to go all primal. Imagine how it impacts the parents of such a being. There are times when I still get so rattled that I feel like a shooting gallery duck.  

Babies can be fussy.  They are wet.  They cry.  They are tired. They cry.  They are hungry. They cry. Ordinarily if you put a baby in their carseat, they will fall asleep.  Same thing if you put them in their stroller.

Kid O had such a disorganized nervous system that these tried and true methods did just the opposite.  Put her in her carseat and she would cry hysterically  to the point of throwing up all over herself.  That didn't stop until she was around four. 

People assume that if someone requires help with toileting or feeding or dressing that they are physically weak.  Kid O is not without her ways of resisting something she does not want.  Just because she doesn't have a lot of muscle mass, doesn't mean that being kicked by her wouldn't hurt.  The girl packs a mean mule kick.  

Some mornings it takes two of us to get her into her wheelchair.  One to bend her legs and keep her from extending her hips, and the other to strap her in. There have been times when I have had to deal with Kid O turning herself into a human board.  Eventually I would prevail, but not without an average of twenty minutes of cajoling and heavy lifting, which would leave me gasping for air.  

To a casual observer, it probably looks like Kid O is screaming because her mother is abusing her.  .Instead, I am being abused by people who, over the years, have jumped to painfully wrong conclusions including an allegation of sexual abuse

I don't begrudge women their perfect children.  I just always wanted the same thing.  And, barring that, at least not to be thought of as if I were some criminal. Unfortunately, my circumstances are not that unusual.  I have read of instances of special needs children removed from their parents simply because these people are flawed human beings.  For some reason people think they can raise Kid O better than my husband and I can.  I had one woman start a whisper campaign against us.  Why?  Because on the morning she came over, we were feeding our daughters *gasp* toast and jelly and not a full breakfast.  And so it goes.

People have no idea how difficult it can be to guide a special needs child to adulthood.  They have no idea how incredibly stressful it can be.  They contact DCFS without considering how unnecessary and how hurtful it can be.  

The last time DCFS was called out, we hired an attorney to join us at a meeting at Kid O's school.  My husband made a point of mentioning my high blood pressure. The teaching staff received his meta message loud and clear, "If anything happens to my wife..." I was grateful for his protectiveness.  I could  see Kid O's teaching team shift from being on the offense to realizing what harm they could cause.  Do people not consider how devastated Kid O would be if she were removed from the two people who love her and understand her better than anyone in the world?  

When I am not being considered a criminal, I am being placed on a pedestal. When I fall from that pedestal, people become incredibly disillusioned with me. Neither place is comfortable.  I have never asked for people to worship me. Respect and compassion would go a long way to acknowledging me and other parents of special needs children.    We are neither sinners nor saints.  We are just people who happen to face enormous challenges every day.  And, hopefully, with a tremendous amount of grace.  

Edward G Robinson, Queen Victoria, An Easy-Bake Oven and a Rabbi: Making Sense of Kid O's Early Days

They rolled my gurney into the room where they were cleaning her up. Kid O had dark hair,and this fierce, defiant look that reminded my husband and me of Edward G. Robinson.. I got to look at her for a few minutes. Then they rolled me to my room, and they rolled Kid O to the NICU.

That Monday night I slept fitfully. I was filled with magnesium sulphate, saline solution, and enough morphine to give me endless lucid dreams or visions. No deep sleep, more than proving the adage that you don't go to the hospital for a rest.

Two days later, they removed the IV for the magnesium sulphate. As soon as I was liberated, I got myself dressed and hightailed it down to the NICU. I was looking in on Kid O when they shooed me away from her incubator and they wouldn't tell me why. I stood outside and watched them roll up what, to me, looked like an E-Z Bake Oven and what I surmised was a preemie sized x-ray machine. I was bewildered. Members of NICU staff saw me at the window, and insisted I had to go back to my room.

A man stood in my doorway. He told me that he was the chaplain, but he could come back later if I wanted to nap. He looked familiar to me. As soon as he told me his name, I knew who he was. My husband and I had met him a month earlier. he was the rabbi who we wanted for a naming ceremony. I invited him in.

The rabbi sat near me and listened. He did not presume to offer any answers. He told me he thought that Kid O would be OK. She had a glucose IV and a nose feeding tube. She weighed only 3 lbs, 10 oz Yet if the rabbi told me he didn't think she'd leave after two days, maybe she wouldn't. That gave me some comfort.

A short while later, the chief neonatologist came up to my room. Kid O's digestive system had been shutting down. My heart sank. The x-rays, he explained, showed that she was full. So they removed the nose feeding tube. I felt relieved. I immediately went down to the NICU and took my first really good look at Kid O.

As Kid O slept, she made suckling motions with her lips. Her tiny little fists shook. I was relieved they had removed the nose feeding tube, but the glucose IV remained. Kid O kept pulling it out, so they fashioned what looked like a hat and taped the IV to her head.. While it was hard to see the IV taped to her tiny head, I at least knew that she was getting better.

One of the nurses taped a caricature of Minnie Mouse to the incubator stand. We still have it. Since my husband would come wearing his long sleeved tie dyed shirt, another nurse got Kid O a Garcia bear beanie baby. We still have that, too. My husband brought in this tiny yellow cloth elephant we had. Those two stuffed animals were her companions as she got stronger.

My husband told me that the babies who screamed were the ones most likely to survive. The nurses told us that, at feeding time, Kid O screamed with all of her might, while other babies waited placidly. Kid O was neither to be denied nor forgotten.

After we brought her home, Kid O's demeanor softened from looking like a miniature Edward G Robinson fighting for survival to that of Queen Victoria showing a "we are not amused" look of displeasure. Her wails made me feel like a duck in a shooting gallery, going every which way.

Kid O kept me in a panic. I don't know how I functioned during those early days. I had post partum depression, and Kid O had a disorganized nervous system. Despite some early tumult, we had some good moments. I read a book to her about Merlin while she slept in my lap. We listened to public radio together. When she was not in a state of upset, Kid O and I took some good walks together. When she was up in the middle of the night teething, we watched their do wop specials they bring out for their pledge drives.

Slowly I began to make sense of this baby. As she grew, she turned into a person I liked. That is not to say that her nervous system became magically organized. It did not. There were times of much screaming. But there were also times when I could also see her emergent sense of humor. That made all the difference. And still does.

Imagine That. Kid O For a Day.

The following is my contribution to Blogging Against Disablism Day, which is May 1st. http://blobolobolob.blogspot.com/2010/04/blogging-against-disablism-day-will-be.html


Imagine that you awaken one morning to discover that you have metamorphosed into a fourteen year-old girl who is severely handicapped. You find yourself suddenly strapped into a wheelchair. You cannot reach the wheels or the breaks, so you cannot go anywhere. Your wheelchair does not have a power joystick attached to a battery pack. And, even if you had one, your fingers are unable to bend so that you could use it.

Imagine that you no longer have the ability to speak. The only voice you have produces the most primal of sounds. You can scream. You can shriek. You can cry. You can also laugh and make babbling sounds. You cannot use your hands to gesticulate because they are too spastic. That means that sign language is out of the question. You also do not have the dexterity to text or write. Imagine that you don't have any assistive technology. You can only answer yes/no questions by moving your crippled left hand to some ablebodied person's outstretched hand. Since they are on your right side, you must slowly move your left arm across your body to accomplish this. Your default answer is yes.

You have to rely on others to feed you, clothe you and tend to your every need. Miraculously you can use the bathroom on your own, but that is the only thing you can do for yourself. The real Kid O cannot. Because you have to rely on others and they are not telepathic, you need to be flexible. You have to wait for a caregiver to help you. You are allowed to whine. It may be that caregivers are tired. Or maybe they are in a bad mood. Or maybe they are otherwise occupied. Sometimes these things cannot be helped. You can be very vocal about it, or you can wait silently.

Imagine that people don't talk to you. They talk around you. You can hear and understand everything is being said, but, because you cannot express yourself, you are treated as if you are incapable of understanding even the simplest of things. Even some of the people closest to you, who you know love you a lot, infantalize you by having the most simplistic conversations with you despite evidence that you comprehend well beyond that. You can forgive them for that because you know that they mean well and that they want what is best for you.

Imagine people don't look at you but through you. Imagine them never looking in your eyes. Imagine that you are bored to tears because people around you are only giving you two options to choose from. Imagine they misinterpret what little you can do as lacking in intelligence. Imagine that they do not understand that the game you devised of ablebodied fetch serves a twofold purpose: you practice your dexterity, and it's one of the few ways you have of interacting with those around you. Imagine that, because you cannot speak, that you are denied assistive technology because people need to know first if you can tell the difference between blue and yellow before they will give it to you. You refuse to answer because you think it's a silly question. You don't want to activate the switch because the recording still has your dead teacher's voice on it, and hearing her makes you sad. You are relieved when your mom bends down beside you to ask you if that is why you are reluctant to use the switch, and they agree to record over your teacher's voice.

Imagine that little kids ask your mom if what you have is contagious. That is OK because they are little kids. They want to know about you. You wish they didn't feel uncomfortable around you. You know that your mom was upset one morning because she discovered the word "mental" written in chalk on the masonry. You also remember when the boy grunted at you when your mom was rolling out you to the school bus. You know that people don't honor your humanity. You also know that many people do. You know that if they were to look in your eyes, that people would see your indomitable spirit and understand that you have a wicked sense of humor. You also know that it doesn't matter what other people think. You are exceptional.

Ingenious Nonsense: Tugging at Blankets and Ablebodied Fetch

The pediatrician suggested I try to have Kid O be on her belly. I knew she hated that. Even so I thought it may not be a bad idea. It was essential she learned to move. I placed two baby blankets on the floor. On one end I placed several of her favorite toys. On the other end I placed her. And then I left the room. She was pissed. I knew she had to figure this out for herself. I went into the kitchen. She was tantruming loudly. I thought I'd give her a few minutes. She was carrying on something fierce. And then silence. I rushed back in and was both surprised and amused by what I saw.

With crabbed claws Kid O had pulled the second blanket, bringing the toys to her. No attempt at crawling. That stubborn cuss had thwarted me on that. She solved the problem the way she wanted to. And was content. And probably a little bit amused. To me it remains a remarkable achievement and a testament to the sheer determination she was born with.

When she was born, Kid O had fisted up hands. Her dominant left hand even turned outward, yet that was and remains her stronger side. That gives you an idea as to what tenacity she has. I have yet to meet anyone who is harder working or more focused. When she was two, a Feldenkrais instructor, with many years of experience, told me that Kid O had the best attention span of anyone she'd ever worked with, including many adults. Even when it looks as if she is not doing much, Kid O is always trying to figure out how to move, and, occasionally, how to speak. The last word I heard her say was something that sounded a lot like "book" and that was several years ago. She obviously must think about what she wants to say. Back in January 2001 when Kid Q was born, a proud older sister would tell anyone who would listen, "Momma, baby, momma, baby, momma, baby." The people at school were entirely surprised. We were not surprised. What is perplexing to us is why she seems to be able to express herself and then suddenly not. The acceptable explanation is that she is focused more on movement over speech. The nervous system can only do so much. Perhaps.

Kid O likes to play a game we call ablebodied fetch. On the surface it looks much like what toddlers do. They drop objects over and over again to see what happens. Problem is to convince educators that there is more to Kid O's game than that. She is practicing her fine motor skills in a very focused way. If one pays attention, the observer would see the look of concentration on Kid O's face as she does things like rummages through a crayon box, for instance. This is all practice for her, even if it seems silly to the casual observer. This is a serious past time for her. Little by little, Kid O gains in dexterity. In just the last few months, she has gain use of her right arm and hand that shows a reduction of spasticity and an increase in intentionality.

When we go to visit my mother, one of the things we do is roll Kid O up to her piano and see what happens. This one time I rolled her up with her right side closer. Kid O was stymied at first, but, after a little bit, her right hand slowly rose up and hit the keyboard. She solved the problem. In all likelihood she had been working on that problem for many, many, months, trying to get her brain to send the proper signals to her right hand. To us, looking for signs of progress can be like watching paint dry. We don't see the day to day progress. We need confirmation from occasional visitors that something is going on. And it is.

Kid O is always thinking about how to get her limbs to move past the spasticity that seems to always impede her progress. Anyone who looks into those smoldering amber eyes would know that there's all kinds of mischief and a wicked sense of humor behind them. When I have moments when I feel like giving up, I see how hard she is working and why I must continue to seek out those who would help her reach her full potential.

One Primal Scream Will Get You Three... Cops, That Is

Kid O was teething. She was in pain. I was frustrated. I put her down some place safe, went into the bathroom and let out a good primal scream. A moment later I returned and placed her in her crib for a nap. Then I went to take a bath. I was rummaging around for clothes when I heard a loud rap on the door. I closed up my robe and looked out the peephole. To my great concern, I saw three policemen standing in the vestibule. I opened the door. The oldest of the three explained to me that they had received a call about a screaming baby. I picked Kid O up because the loud noises had wakened her up. The eldest cop looked like he was a grandpa. He asked me, "how old is she?" I told him she was six months. Then he said, "Is she teething?" And I told him, yeah. And told him the rest. I'll never forget the look on his face. "A mother is having a temper tantrum and for this we get called." Without saying another word the three of them left.

I have been living in a fishbowl since 1996. Shortly after Kid O was born, my nosy neighbor came over with something for me to read about pre-eclampsia and how I could have prevented it. I waived her away. I already knew that I could have prevented Kid O's premature birth. The nosy neighbor at least meant well. She was not the one who called the police on us. That was likely the downstairs neighbor whose husband was always yelling at their son. Or it could have been the couple who had given birth to a perfect son, another 90th percentile. She made a point of telling me her son's head was in the 99th percentile.

I dubbed the baby girl next door and the baby boy upstairs, baby giants. On one of the few occasions that the woman next door invited me to stroller our babies together, we stopped at this very tiny, quiet park. As we sat there, she said to her daughter, H., "You are a baby, and she is an infant." I was perplexed. I thought a baby and infant were one and the same. I also wondered, why the need to compare? Did she want me to admit that her baby was far superior to mine? She found other moms with higher quality babies to walk with. I was surrounded by baby snobs. Kid O and I were not good enough to be seen in their company. We were fine with staying with if someone locked herself out of the house. Or if upstairs mom needed some company because her husband was out of town. No trips to the playlot for us.

I felt isolated and I felt fearful. Kid O and I didn't measure up. Since she was only six months old when the cops were called, I knew or imagined that people were always assessing me in a way that they would never have done if Kid O had been ablebodied. Every scream had to mean we were maltreating her. When we tried to put her to bed just like any other parents, the police were called again. We were forced to wait until Kid O was sound asleep before putting her to bed. Every time she'd wake up on account of teething pain, I'd have to try two, three times to get her back to bed. And each time I was fearful there'd be another knock on the door.

Everyone would always ask me if Kid O was OK. No one would ever ask me if I was. No, I wasn't. I had a difficult baby and neighbors who assumed the worst. I was frazzled. I was constantly looking over my shoulder. And, on top of that, I was trying to overcome my anger and grief over not having the same kind of child as everyone else. How could I be OK? Kid O didn't like to be in the stroller. Kid O didn't enjoy the sun porch. And milestones were not being met. No one could explain to me why not. I was starting to intuit the worst. I named it to myself months before any pediatrician did. I knew Kid O had cerebral palsy. I knew that she was handicapped. I knew she was a great gift, too. I knew that I'd never take basic movement for granted. Ever again.