Parenting
My Unconventional Child
by Mia Thompson
Updated: Jan. 27, 2015
Originally Published: July 7, 2011
Today’s weather was simply delightful—a refreshing 65 degrees with an expansive and clear blue sky. Armed with our sturdy red wagon, a selection of sippy cups and snacks, I set off with my two kids: a boy and a girl. My son has just turned three, while my daughter is nearly two; they are both uniquely sensitive and spirited in their own ways. I wrangled them into the car for a trip to the zoo, alongside what seemed like 500 other families enjoying the beautiful day.
As my almost two-year-old settled into the wagon, my son marched confidently toward each animal exhibit, peering through the fencing. Just yesterday, he had been a timid little thing, clinging to my leg in the occupational therapist’s waiting room, where we visited for a screening recommended by his well-meaning Mother’s Day Out teachers who believed he might not be quite ready for preschool.
My son, whose honey-colored eyes light up at the sight of lions and tigers, is incredibly sensitive and often exhibits babyish traits. He just celebrated his third birthday two months ago, but at home, his go-to response to any minor disappointment—whether it’s a cookie that fell or a sideways glance from his sister—often involves whining or tears.
At school, however, he is a different child. He gives me a tight hug, makes me promise I’ll return after lunch, and then reluctantly enters the classroom. He’s the quiet one, never crying or taking toys from others. While he interacts with his peers, he primarily seems to be there for the train tables, the playground, and the books.
During circle time at Mother’s Day Out, when it’s his turn to stand up, his entire body freezes. It’s a striking transformation—a butterfly retreating back into its cocoon. He tends to shut down, his muscles tensing beneath his colorful shirt, his expression going blank.
One day, I decided to observe circle time from a discreet distance.
“Come up here,” a teacher says gently.
He remains frozen, perhaps hoping to be overlooked.
“Stand up,” the teacher encourages. “Now walk over here.”
He complies slowly, resembling Charlie Brown in his shuffling gait.
“Can you find the yellow triangle and put it on the board?”
Again, he freezes.
I sit nervously, biting a hangnail, desperately wanting to shout, “For goodness’ sake, you know how to do this! Just pick it up!” But I remain silent, feeling powerless. “Just do it,” I silently plead.
Eventually, he leans down and picks up the shape, but then he’s stuck again, staring at the board with his feet seemingly glued to the ground.
“Walk over there and place it on the board. Right there. No, not there,” the teacher instructs.
Finally, he manages to do it, but remains standing still.
“Move it!” I urge him internally.
“Okay, now go sit back down in your spot,” the teacher concludes.
He slumps into his chair, visibly more relaxed as the focus shifts away from him.
I know my child well. I spend most of the week with him, with only eight hours at Mother’s Day Out. His teachers don’t see him cry or recognize how shy and sensitive he truly is. They don’t understand how much he avoids the spotlight. The presence of a baby sister, just 16 months younger, has taken some of the attention he craved. He simply takes longer to process everything because that’s who he is.
So, off to occupational therapy we go for an objective evaluation.
In the therapist’s office, after some coaxing, I get him to sit in a small chair. The therapist has a kind demeanor and a calming voice. She hands him a crayon and asks him to color. He, a left-handed child, awkwardly switches the crayon to his right hand, nervously resting his left arm over his forehead as he begins to timidly dot the paper.
Once again, I watch him struggle. I’m right next to him, biting my lip to stop myself from saying, “You’re doing it wrong.” He’s given several activities—cutting, drawing, identifying objects—most of which they note he does incorrectly.
The therapist gently hands me a green sheet of paper, marking the areas where she believes he needs improvement to align with his peers. The term “mildly developmentally delayed” comes up in conversation.
“Does a just-turned three-year-old really need to know how to use scissors?” I wonder aloud.
But today, at the zoo, my son blends in with the other jubilant kids, all excited by the slow-moving animals, the bright sunlight illuminating the pavement, and the cheerful train gliding along the tracks. On this perfect day, my “developmentally delayed” son seems just like all the other children.
Do they all carry hidden heartaches?
Because that’s what kids do to their parents: they tug at our heartstrings. But today, there’s a sense of healing in the air. It might be the vibrant sunlight that fills me with hope, or the gentle breeze rustling the trees. Or perhaps it’s my sweet little boy, who showers me with hugs and “I love you’s,” his wild curls bouncing in the wind.
Whatever the reason, today, if only for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the beauty in my perfectly “imperfect” child.
This article was originally published on July 7, 2011. For more on topics like this, check out our other content on home insemination, where you can find helpful advice regarding the process and its implications.
Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Mia Thompson shares her experiences raising her sensitive three-year-old son, who struggles with anxiety and developmental challenges. Through a visit to the zoo, she finds solace in his joyful moments, realizing that every child has their unique path and gifts, irrespective of societal expectations. The journey of parenting is filled with ups and downs, but love and acceptance shine through in the end.