Susan Senator

It is the time of year where you try to count your blessings. But no matter how positive a person you are, this is not always possible. Sometimes I am left counting my burdens instead. I was raised to be an optimist, or at least to look at the bright side whenever possible, and if that was not possible, to make a joke. This is how my Jewish parents approach life: nothing is so terrible that you can’t laugh at it a little. In Yiddish this gallows humor is called, "laughing with yashtikas," literally translated, "laughing with pins."

Recently I had a day for probably more pins than laughter. I had to drive my son Nat to school because he had a doctor's appointment. His school, a special education behavioral program for children with autism is about 40 minutes away. I took my mother and father with me so that they could see the brand new facility and meet his teachers, whom I adore. At the school, we were greeted by an enthusiastic program director, Nat’s smiling teacher, and helpful receptionists. We chatted with his teacher while Nat strode ahead, like he owned the place. "He's doing so great," she said to us, which we knew already, but loved to hear.

But when we opened the door to the classroom, my happiness fizzled. All around me were Nat’s classmates, flapping and staring off into space, or stammering and trying to speak. Even though these were mostly 16-year-olds, there were toys and beginner books spread over the tables. One girl was sprawled on a gym mat, taking a break.

As I looked around, I found myself wondering why, after all these years, was it still so hard for me to adjust to the sight of disability? Why was my first response one of sorrow? Even knowing what I know -- that Nat is doing so well; that his teachers are wonderful; that the school is top-notch -- I dip below the surface back into my oldest feeling as a mother: loss.

But I have learned, over the years, to force my way back. I swam against that tide by keeping my eyes on Nat, pacing around the room with a huge grin on his face, getting out his work to begin his day; utterly happy, completely competent here in his class. I told myself that he seems out of it, but is not. The other kids in here are no different in that way. I know them, after all: J might have Down's Syndrome, but once you start him talking, he is aware of everything going on around him. R is huge and frowning, a little scary to look at, but he comes over to us and shows us that he got "all checkmarks" today. There is D, screaming as usual, but you catch his eye and he'll give you an age-appropriate leer.

They are all just kids. They're doing okay. Really.

It's just the rest of the world that is not.

As we walked out, back to our car, we talked about how well Nat was doing. I said to my father, “You know, if he were – well, normal – he would be ‘big man on campus.’”

My father turned to me and said, “He already is,” and smiled. We drove home, smiling, with just a little bit of pins.