Living Life in a Box

I remember the first time I knew you were different.  Okay, well maybe I don’t remember that exactly.  But if I did, I’d feel like I had more control in some weird kind of way.  In actuality, it was the moment, the first time that someone else told me you were different.  

I walked into your preschool that day, the room bursting with primary colors and alphabets and I saw you running circles around the room, squealing in delight.  Your delight was not for me mind you, but rather some kind of game of keep away you were playing with another child.  You slowed a moment and looked at me briefly out of the corner of your eye, and then kept running.  I watched you for a moment, running in and out of the rays of sunshine filtering in from the windows.  As I stood there watching you, your teacher came up behind me and commented on how much energy you have.  How much energy you ALWAYS have.  No matter the time of day, with or without nap, you were much like the energizer bunny, she said.  

“I think he has ADHD. Has anyone ever talked to you about that?  Has his doctor mentioned that to you Heather?”

In that moment, I felt like the rays of sunshine withdrew from the room.  Suddenly, all I heard was your squealing, louder than the others.  It was as if someone had pushed the mute button on the rest of the children’s laughter.  And it was just you and me.  Until that moment, I’d always looked at your energy as an amazing thing.  Until then, I looked at your ability to jump from one toy to another as flexibility.  I’d never put a label on it.  I’d never put you in a box.  But in that moment, I felt like a giant box and just been dropped around you and your future, your possibilities were going to be limited.  Limited by others.  

That was five years ago.  Today, you are nine.  And your preschool teacher?  She was right, about the ADHD part.  And many have since tried to put you in a box.  Your kindergarten teacher continually placed you in a chair outside the classroom for talking too much and moving around too much.  Your first grade teacher consistently made you sit in other classrooms or stay in at recess for being too disruptive.  Your second grade teacher, well I think she just didn’t know what to do with you.  Your third grade teacher, she knew you were different.  But she saw that as potential instead of a limitation and worked with you to help you feel calm and secure in who you are.  And here we are, a few weeks into fourth grade and you are struggling to find a box that fits you.  There are moments when you want to celebrate your differences, but most of the time you just want to be like all of the other kids.  

You recognize you are different.  You recognize your small size and stature makes you a great candidate for a Yoda costume for Halloween.  You realize that your fascination with science and meteorology could prove to be an exciting career as a storm chaser.  But you also recognize that being different doesn’t always feel good.  

As I look back at that first time someone else told me you were different, I realize that in that moment and for several months, if not years after, I let others define you and the box you should fit in.  But as you’ve grown, so have I.  And together, we’ve learned this so called box is one that we will define, we will break down and break through.  And heck, maybe we’ll create a brand new, big box.  One that has primary colors and rays of sunshine coming in.  One that is ever changing to meet your wishes, not the needs of others.