When I sing with the preschool I bring my trusty guitar. The children use their voices and hands to join in. But halfway through our time together the teacher pulls a collection of instruments down from the a high shelf and passes them out. There are egg shakers, rain sticks, triangles and maracas. There is also a pair of bongos ... not the real deal but child friendly ones. Perhaps too friendly, since one has a hole. Probably an energetic preschooler pierced the plastic head with a stick. 

 

There is no choosing, when the box comes around. Getting your first pick or even your second would thrust us all into a process that could drag on like lines at the mall. Instead the teacher sings a little ditty.

 

"We get what we get and we don't get upset!"

 

Which seems to settle it. 

 

I used to wonder if the recipient of the torn drum would complain. But today he accepted the two halves for their differences. One was interesting for poking inside. The other made a satisfying thump. It was part of being in the band. 

 

There seemed to be no twinge of self sacrifice. Both drums were worth exploring, so he did. 

 

Today I noticed a cluster of people walking by. Some of them had reindeer antlers on. One person has special needs. Yet there was no whiff of tolerance by the intact walkers as they joked with the boy who is partly broken. He was just part of the band. 

 

Having a son with autism has a huge impact on our family. As I write he is yelling pretty loudly. It can be tempting to wish I had a different diagnosis to deal with. Yet things go better when I can remember that little ditty.