Timing is Everything

Sometimes awful things happen. Not awful as in complete tragedy, but awful as in extremely unfortunate and highly ironic in a very awkward way.

Image copyright, Teece Aronin. Available on

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I had just been offered a blogger position where I would be given plenty of leeway, and since my then-husband had cerebral palsy, disability awareness, inclusion, and equity were themes I wanted to shine light on.

The night the job came through, my husband and I took our kids, Syd and Jon and my mother out to celebrate. Jon was about seven and Syd was nine. We were gathered around a table in an Italian restaurant with Jon to my immediate right.

This was before cell phones were in every purse or pocket, and since I never wanted to miss a moment, I always had my little digital camera with me. Jon asked if he could hold it. 

As I handed the camera to Jon, I was gabbing away to my mother about how excited I was about this job. 

"I'm telling you, I can't get over how much freedom they're giving me to write about something so important. This is just so perfect!"

"Mommy, can I take a picture?"

"Hang on just a minute, honey."

"And to think I can work from anywhere. I can be home with the kids and still supplement our income!"

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Can I take a picture?"

"Sure, honey. But honestly, getting to write about disability awareness is such an amazing opportunity!"

Jon took a picture of his sister and when the flash went off, a waiter about 20 feet away was immediately launched into a seizure. He fell and the tray of dinners he was carrying crashed to the floor with him.

Everyone gasped and sat motionless except for the manager who was trained for situations like this. He charged from the kitchen, trying to calm the alarmed patrons while he hurried to the downed waiter.

"It's okay, everybody! It's okay! This happens sometimes!"

Then, as if speaking of the scum of the earth, the sub-scum even, the manager loudly sneered: "Someone here probably just used a FLASH CAMERA!"

Jon froze, his eyes huge. The little hands holding the camera immediately lowered to his lap and under the table. Then slowly, like one prisoner sneaking a shiv to a fellow prisoner, he slipped the camera over to me.

And like a fellow prisoner who just happened to have a large handbag on the floor by her chair, I hid it.

The waiter sat up, shook it off and laughed, saying he was fine.

But our table conversation around disability awareness came to an immediate halt since each of us was plenty aware for one night.

Angel in a Helmet

One morning, I lost my Mother of the Year Award twice in 15 minutes.  

I was attempting to get my seven-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter off to school. My daughter was on a course of oral steroids for treatment of a run-in with poison oak. I, in my finite wisdom, defied the clock and decided she should take the pills right then before we left, even though we were extremely tight on time. She sat at the kitchen table, her face swollen and blotchy, crying because she didn't want to go to school looking like she'd just gone nine rounds with a boxing kangaroo. 

               
She put one of the pills into her mouth, but because of the sobbing, was unable to get it down. Cleverly, I used child psychology to help her swallow the pill: "Swallow - the - pill - now - please." We Mother of the Year Award winners always say please to reinforce good manners in our kids. What a surprise when she cried harder. By the time we left the house, water and pills had dribbled down her front, into her lap, and onto the carpet, upsetting us both even more. 

               
After we got in the car, my son told me his lunch money was in the house, even though I had expressly instructed him to put it in his backpack. "Oh, this is just great!" I said, stomping up the walk to unlock the front door for him. 

               
A few minutes later, both kids had been safely deposited at school, and as I decompressed, I began a post-mortem of the morning. I decided that even though I was clearly wrong, I wasn’t going to be too hard on myself since 99.9% of the time I am patient with my kids. I was also under a lot of stress that day. 

I decided that the first thing I was going to do when I picked the kids up later would be to apologize for acting like a “big, dumb jerk,” which is how I would refer to myself in hopes of making them smile. Then, I remembered a child to whom I had apologized many years before.

                
During high school, I volunteered every afternoon at a learning center for people with disabilities. There was one little boy, Vincent, who lit up every time I walked into his classroom and would rush to me for a hug. 

I wish you could picture him as clearly as I can: four years-old, Black, slight build, and an ever-present helmet to protect his head during seizures. He had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen - huge, round eyes with long, curling eyelashes, and he was completely nonverbal. I was crazy about this child, and if he thought I was the highlight of his day, I knew he was the highlight of mine.

               
One winter day, it was time to go home, so I started helping Vincent with his coat. Gently, I placed his little fist against the opening at the top of the sleeve and guided it in. About halfway through the sleeve, his fist stopped. I assumed he'd purposely grabbed onto the lining.

               
“Vincent, you have to put your coat on; this isn’t time to play,” I said. I pushed down on the little fist again, but it went nowhere.

“Vincent, this is not funny,” I said peering straight into the bon-bon eyes. Those eyes would have no effect on me, no sir. He looked back at me with a placid little smile that I mistook for defiance. “You have to put your coat on now, or you’ll miss the bus. Now, please stop fighting me.”

               
When I failed for the umpteenth time to push his hand through the sleeve, I reached up through the cuff to grasp his hand and pull it through. What I pulled through were his hat and mittens. He had been unable to push his fist through the sleeve and unable to tell me so.

               
Shamefully, my eyes darted toward a teacher who was calmly and successfully helping another child into his coat. I was glad she didn’t seem to have noticed. Then she smiled and said, “Don’t you just hate it when you do something stupid like that?”

              
I admitted that yes, I did hate it when I did something stupid like that. Then I looked at Vincent who was still gazing at me. His expression was the same as before, but this time I saw it for what it really was: patience - patience for the “big, dumb jerk” determined to shove his fist through his hat. I knelt in front of him, put my hand over my heart, and peered into his face.

               
“Vincent, I am sorry. What I did was wrong. I apologize.”

               
Staring into those eyes, I wondered if he understood. Then he grinned, spread his arms like the wings of an angel, and executed a graceful freefall into my hands. What resulted was one of the best hugs I have ever gotten or ever given, and it taught me this lesson: Never hesitate to apologize to a child when you are in the wrong. When I picked up my kids that afternoon, I told them how sorry I was for the way I'd behaved, and they graciously accepted my apology. 

              
I have thought of Vincent many times since those long-ago days at the school. And no doubt, I will think of him many more. When I apologized to him, he assured me without a word, that finally, I had stumbled into doing the right thing. And no doubt, if he’s even still alive, he suspects nothing of what he did for me that day.