My granddaughter came to visit. I was excited to realize that there was one tulip and a single daffodil left in the yard. She is a city girl and does not get to pick flowers. Here was a chance. As it happened when I held her hand and walked along the path she reached down, but not for those I expected. She chose a fistful of dandelions. Olly found them just as beautiful. As a child I remember loving a weed whose name I never knew. I could bend the stem back around the fuzzy head, yank it, and send it sailing across the yard. 

 

People with special needs are rarely included in the casts of television. But Call the Midwife has a couple of episodes. One was about a young man with Down's Syndrome. Another told the story of babies who were impacted by thalidomide. 

 

I sometimes believe that the heartbreak of mothering a son with autism has healed. Benjamin is content with the routines of delivering meals on wheels, solving puzzles, and small cleaning jobs that end with a milkshake. Yet watching those shows brought back memories of when we floundered. Nearly drowned. 

 

The couple that took Reggie in after his mother died felt out of their depth around integrating him into their lives. But when they visited the institution where he would otherwise land, they discovered how much they cared for the gentle boy. His simple obedience endeared him to them, and they wanted him to be happy. 

 

The mothers who were horrified by their babies born without arms and legs had a rocky journey. They traveled through rage, and guilt, and shame over having taken pills that caused such havoc. One father who at first couldn't look at his baby, much less hold her, grew to adore her in spite of an imperfect body. Then when they went to a hospital where children were being fitted for artificial limbs he saw other children. He was baffled by the disconnect. His daughter was precious in spite of her handicap, but the boy without arms evoked only pity. 

 

"Is that what other people feel when they look at my daughter?"

 

I get it. I have been on both sides of that canyon. Benjamin has become much more than his diagnosis. His innocence stops me in my tracks. His inability to lie shines a light on my own willingness to fudge facts. Yet I too can be overwhelmed by seeing children with disabilities, unable to look past it. 

 

Thankfully, the little girl in me who once picked weeds, and enjoyed them, can be reawakened.