The Garden of Kinder

It happened, we lost him to the world. Noah started kindergarten. It was the first day I had to let him step into a world I can’t fully prepare for, protect him from, or explain. I’m not quite sure how I feel about it yet, but mostly, I’m excited. That doesn’t mean it isn’t scary. I’m scared pantsless for what we are about to go through this year. Its quite terrifying sending something so precious—something that is a piece of you and represents your family—out into the world. He’s leaving the little world where we could protect and advocate for him every second. We did the classic “first day of kindergarten sign.” It took me way too long to put those stupid letters on the board. First the spacing of each word, then the spacing between each line, then the spacing between each letter. Oh, and I misspelled kindergarten three times. My husband corrected me the first two times that I had missed a letter. Also, the fuggin word barely fits on the board. However, there was sweet sweet vindication when he also thought kindergarten was spelled with a “D” instead of a “T”. Cool Cool Cool. Moving on…

I’m not nervous about the things I thought I’d be nervous about when sending my first child to kindergarten. I’m not worried about him being away from me or about him growing up. Instead, I’m anxious about things other kindergarten moms probably don’t have to think about. I’m heartbroken I won’t be able to talk to him about his day when he gets home in the way most kindergarteners can. I’m apprehensive about him pooping his pants in front of his friends or wearing a diaper while others don’t. I’m worried about the cruelty. I’m worried about him not understanding a social cue (well most kindergarteners), not being able to communicate his needs, not being able to eat lunch independently, or not being able to keep up. Noah’s not even in a special-ed classroom—he is straight up in gen pop, serving his sentence like every other chaos goblin.

These might be normal anxieties for other parents entering this realm, but I feel there’s another layer when raising a child with special needs. I’m trusting other people with him, strangers right now. I’m watching him enter a world that may not always understand him.

And I’d be lying to you—and to myself—if I said I wasn’t also a bit keen for a break from Noah. The amount of energy it takes to parent him is staggering. I welcome a little bit of calm in our home. I’m thrilled to be able to focus on Lou and Oliver more wholly.

I know Lou will be sad those first few days without Noah. They are so close. But hopefully, she’ll come to understand that this is something exciting—that Noah is going to kindergarten and then coming home to us every afternoon. I mean for Pete’s Sake, he’s only gone for four hours and she’s yelling at him half the day anyway. They say it takes a village to raise children, and this feels like another piece of our village. I feel peace having some assistance, encouragement, and help educating Noah and teaching him how the world works. It will be good for him to have different perspectives, different people to learn from, and other authorities to listen to.

Over the past five years, our world has been turned upside down and shaken into something I hardly recognize—something I never could have dreamed of when I imagined what our family would look like. And now I’m excited to see how he blooms in kindergarten. This year holds so much hope. Like the first unopened bud on a flower. I hope his verbal skills come along. I hope his social skills accelerate. I hope he feels confident, empowered, and proud of himself.

I’m also interested what he will teach other kids. Patience. Grace. Understanding. Compassion. That differences don’t have to be scary. I’ll probably never know how he affects other students but I hope he leaves an impact.

I have yearned for Noah to have a niche, a cohort. We all eventually find ours, but it’s pretty damn lonely until you do. I am worried that starting kinder, sending him out into the world, is going to expose how few people share in his disability. I have been uncertain how many other children will have Down Syndrome at his school. And then, this morning, on his very first day, I saw another family dropping off a child with Down syndrome. Instead of being super cool, snapping selfies of our family and cooing over how cute all the kids on the playground were, I somewhat aggressively approached the dad. Unfortunately, my mouth skipped the introductory paragraph and I started asking him about his child with DS without first explaining that I have a son with Down syndrome.

That dad was standing there like, “…yes, this is my son… why are you telling me he has Down syndrome?” while I’m already three paragraphs deep into my emotional autobiography. I explained that my son has Down syndrome, that it was his first day of school, that he’s our first child, and that there were just a lot of big emotions.

He replied, “I need to go help my son.”

I was like, Ohhhhhkay. Check yourself, you overstepping, emotionally unstable woman. Sorry for unpacking 5 years of emotional history with a complete stranger.

I wasn’t looking at them because I needed answers. I just needed to see someone who had already walked through the door we were standing in front of. I needed Noah to see someone like him succeeding. And someday, I am going to be that dad in the parking lot. Some terrified parent is going to awkwardly approach me and say something completely clumsy because they saw Noah and need reassurance that their world isn’t ending.

I’m scared of what he’ll face. I’m scared of what he’ll miss. I’m scared of how often I’ll have to wonder whether he feels like he belongs. And I’m scared that, sometimes, I’ll be the one who feels like I don’t.

And honestly, I think that’s okay.

Today was a big day for Noah. But it was a big day for me, too.

There’s excitement. There’s fear. There’s loneliness. There’s pride. There’s relief. There’s hope.

And apparently, there’s also an aggressive kindergarten parking-lot interaction that I will probably replay in my head approximately 47 times before falling asleep tonight. Because this won’t be the last awkward interaction I have at school. Despite the awkward moments, emotional roller coasters, and general lack of a clear operating manual, we’re still here. Doing this whole life thing every day, for better or worse—and occasionally with questionable levels of confidence. I’m proud of us, proud of the family we have, and proud of the family we’re becoming. Somehow, it’s working.