Friday, December 15, 2006

First Christmas Pageant


Taking a short break from all the figure skating, so I thought I'd write a post about some personal stuff. I suspect that they'll be more of it during the off-season, as well as the media stuff and spirituality.

Yesterday, I attended my son's first Christmas pageant at his school. Thursday mornings are usually spent at home during varied and sundry things, like paperwork and housework, and then I drive my mother-in-law and daughter to a kiddie music class and spend about an hour in a restaurant with highspeed Internet. That was our plan until I dropped my son off at school, and was reminded about the pageant the school was holding. Our plan was to not attend, since I assumed that being developmentally disabled, George wasn't going to participate, anyway. His principal told me that he was going to participate, and that he was going to be cute and advised me not to miss it.

So we changed our plans and put AnnaRose in the stroller and walked the two blocks to the school to attend George's first Christmas pageant. He was cute--so cute, he made me cry. There he was, standing up proudly with the rest of the kindergartners, smiling and reacting with pure joy as he watched his friends sing. Of course, he wasn't able to sing along, but he had a marvelous time; he even grabbed the hands of his aide and did his dance-thing--moving his knees up and down in tempo to the music. I know I'm not able to give it the description it deserved.

Why did I cry? That's even harder to explain, since I'm not sure people understand me when I try to explain it to them. About 99% of the time, it's okay that George is developmentally disabled. He's George--sweet and loving and beautiful. I don't usually compare him to other kids his own age, and simply take him for what and who he is. Every once in a while, though (like yesterday), something happens that makes it obvious that George isn't like his peers. He can't sing in a choir. He needs an aide to ensure that he stays put and to wipe the drool from his mouth.

Like I said, most of the time, that's okay. Most of the time, it's just a fact of life; it's normal for us. But once in a while, it's not, and I get hit with the fact that George is different. He's special. And it's an emotional impact. It's like coming to grips with the reality of his disabilities all over again. Sometimes it feels like the first time the doctor gave us his diagnosis. Because having a child with a disability isn't a one-time acceptance. It happens over and over again. It happens when you observe his age-peers do things he can't.

In other words, it's a grieving process. And it will happen for the rest of our lives, often unexpectedly, like yesterday. It was bittersweet. On the one hand, it was sweet to see him so joyful and excited, but on the other hand, it was difficult emotionally. It's sweet to see George, at 6 1/2, start to understand and enjoy Christmas for the first time. It's sweet that while his class was singing, "All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth" the same week George lost two of his bottom teeth. And it's sweet to observe, for the first time, Christmas from the perspective of a purely joyful child.

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