You’d think I would get it.
I mean, hell – I spend half my time thinking about and talking about (and writing about) my daughter’s challenges.
I virtually live in the language of difference – or at least I live virtually in the language of difference.
So how is it that I’m still taken aback every time I see those differences in motion?
For God’s sake, how am I still surprised that my daughter really does have special needs?
I ran back to the school yesterday to bring something into Brooke’s room after drop-off. (An extra pair of pants if you must know because the ones she had on were threatening to slide right off of her non-existent hips.)
I poked my head in the door to let Ms N know that they’d be in her locker. In so doing, I caught just a simple snapshot of my daughter’s day.
Ms L was gently herding the class to the center mat for their morning meeting. Little ones came and sat down one by one. Stragglers were admonished with a subtly raised eyebrow.
Brooke was not moving toward the mat, nor was she being admonished for lagging. Instead, she sat at her table with Ms N plodding through her morning work.
Her worksheet was clipped to the large blue easel that helps her write. When her OT first installed it at her seat, we asked Ms N to ensure that its benefits outweighed its awkward and unwieldy presence in the room. Apparently they do.
She looked frustrated.
And there it was – Brooke’s world – or at least a part of it.
Her IEP in action – the preview and review and individual teaching. All of the supports – the easel, the grips, the extra time – they are giving her what she NEEDS. We’ve worked hard to put each and every one of them in place and I am grateful for them.
But somehow – even after all the hours spent thinking about them, strategizing about them, creating them and even meeting to evaluate them – I’m still surprised to see them in action.
You’d think I’d get it.
Do you get used to it?