Love More, Judge Less
Dear Timo, Every year on your birthday, I look at photos of you, and I marvel… and cry. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, you have gone from a 5 pound newborn to a 5 year-old boy. Beautiful at birth, delicate and serene, we fawned over your exquisite bone structure… which was quickly obscured
He’s going into Kindergarten and she’s going into third grade… academically, he’s more advanced than she is.
These days, most of my time is divided between wishing my toddler would talk more, and silently willing nearly everyone else to shut the f*ck up. You see, my beautiful, bright, sweet little boy has a speech delay – which, while both common and curable, is not without its own set of trials and tribulations.
I’ve never felt passionate enough about anything to get a tattoo. But this may be it.
We should not have to defend ourselves to each other. We are free (and encouraged!) to make our own decisions, to be inadequately, incorrectly, or even overly informed.
We had no idea when we transitioned to the new daycare that not only would we find all of that but that we would find an extension of our family in the teachers and directors of the early learning center.
The perinatologist started talking about missing fingers. About how she sees this at the hospital once or twice a year. How there’s nothing else wrong with her but they want to refer me for more scans at another hospital.
Because then at some level, I’m admitting she is and will always be different.
This mom’s frustration with her local school district just bowled me over completely. This is my client population: parents who are tired of being dismissed by their children’s educators as crazy, money-hungry, or power tripping. Parents of kids who burst into tears because a 30-minute homework assignment takes three hours. Parents who are ready to
Within five minutes of observing Gavin, she (and the rest of the team for that matter) said “the issue we have here is this super smart kid is in the wrong body. So we need to fix this.”
