“Is he right-handed?" The teacher asked the proud parents who are assisting their oldest child with the start of his kindergarten career.
“We don’t know. He uses both hands. So, how should we manage that issue,” said the father.
“You don’t have to do anything,” said the teacher. “The brain is very good at self-management.”
Yes, my son and I have returned to the land of healthy children where parents must invent problems and ask the most insipid questions that make their concerns seem relevant. To avoid shooting looks of contempt at the beautiful smiling couple and their healthy child, I focused on my son who kept his left arm frozen and tight against his chest as he neatly and happily colored despite the paper squirming all over the table. He has no choices when it comes to handedness; his choices were cut away with the scalpel during his brain surgery. I wonder if they can feel my contempt and jealously.
When I looked down at my hands, I saw that I was wearing my mother’s skin. Skin that was worn, beaten and broken open. Her long battle, her many years of fighting for a special needs child turned her optimism into bitterness and her love into scorn. She grew to loathe and detest everyone who was typically developed even her own normally developed children. She could never see past the unfairness and cruelty that made her daughter’s life hard. My sister forgave those who teased and taunted her; found unconditional love, and made a life of her own while our mother remained angry at a cruel and unjust universe.
“I love kindergarten,” my son said.
I leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek and to touch his shoulder. My skin returned.
