Two of my kids and I were sitting in the bleachers waiting for the marching band competition to start. My husband couldn’t make it so it was just the kids and myself. I wasn’t sure how my son would behave. In my mind, he should enjoy the music and the flag routines. He likes both of these activities but in reality, I have no idea how he’s going to react. Or even if we could stay for the entire competition. My plan was to play it by ear and stay only as long as it was enjoyable for everyone.
Thankfully, the weather was in our favor, albeit a little windy. We had arrived early, to make sure we were all settled before the competition began. While we were waiting, the lady across from me strikes up a conversation. Turns out both of us had a daughter in the competition, although from different schools. She was a nice woman. Eventually, we got into a conversation about my son because he’s hard to ignore. He operates under the assumption everyone is there to see him. So he likes to hijack conversations to talk about his interests. Naturally, we talk about his disability. Then she says something which was intended to be a compliment instead her words landed on me like a ton of bricks.
I sat in silence for a couple of seconds not knowing how to respond. I couldn’t figure out how very kind-sounding words could have a remarkably negative effect on me. It wasn’t like this was the first time I’m hearing this expression because it wasn’t. But it was never in the context of being a parent of a person with a disability. I don’t remember feeling anything untoward about this expression yet why does it suddenly make me feel uncomfortable now?
All she said to me was “You’re a saint!” I don’t remember the rest of what she said because my mind couldn’t get past the word saint. Did being a parent of a son with a disability mean I’m a saint? I certainly don’t feel like a saint.
It’s not as if I voluntarily signed up to be a parent to someone with a disability. This was the bag I was given. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Instead, I’m only doing what any other person would do in my situation. Which is to be the best parent I can be to my son. I don’t think that qualifies me for sainthood.
Although I did thank her (because she meant well) do you know what I would’ve liked to hear? You did a great job of planning the day! Because I did. The day was perfect, I was prepared for every emergency and dodged every bullet like a pro. This day could’ve totally gone wrong but it didn’t and it made me so proud.
What being a parent to my son means
Being a parent to my son means I had his backpack filled and ready to go with all the stuff he likes. I bring the backpack because I know he loves wearing it and it gets him out of the car.
It means naming all the colors of the cars in the parking lot. This makes walking out of the parking lot fun and fast.
It means while waiting in line to get tickets, I occupied him in a game of I Spy With My Little Eye. This kept him engaged and happily focused on the game instead of the line.
It means I had him help me count the money at the ticket window. This prevented him from running off and exploring whatever caught his fancy.
It means when he was apprehensive about taking the stairs leading up to the stadium, I turned it into a counting game. This made him forget his apprehension.
It means, once we were in the stadium, I had to find seats close enough to the exit but they couldn’t be the first row of bleacher’s either. Because he likes to stretch his legs out causing his feet to block the walkway and unintentionally tripping anyone who walks by.
It means we pretended to be dinosaurs as we stomped up the stairs to our seats. Because the stairs leading up to our seats were narrow and he has visual depth perception issues. I know if he’s not looking down at his feet he will trip and pretending to be dinosaurs stomping up the stairs keeps his eyes on his feet.
It means we sit close to the stairs. In case we need to leave early we won’t have to crawl over people to get out.
This is what being a parent to my son means. All in all, it was a good day. I think I would’ve loved to hear someone tell me I did an excellent job in planning and easing my son’s anxieties. And if they wanted to throw in a complimentary sweet treat or bouquet of flowers to praise my patience I wouldn’t protest. Because I was extremely patient that day.
What have I learned?
I don’t mind praise for my hard work, ingenuity, or resourcefulness but I’m not a saint. This is my normal, it’s different from most people’s. But it doesn’t make me a saint, it just makes me a parent.