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11:57 a.m. - Saturday, Jul. 30, 2011 I tried everything I knew. Constantly asking him to hold things for me . . .a stress ball, the football, the hula hoop. Could he please collect the scissors? Could he pass out the construction paper? Could he hold up the Indian cloth for his friends to see? Sometimes I was honest with him. "Why should I hold this?" he would ask. "Because sometimes holding something like this can help people concentrate better . . .regulate their bodies." Sometimes he stared at me like I was a freak of nature. I could almost hear him thinking, "What the fuck is this crazy bitch up to?" You know . . .with a 7-year-old vocabulary. By the end of the week, the bruise had faded and he no longer hit at his face. He did manage to destroy his drum and had to use mine for the performance . . .but I much prefer a broken drum to a broken body. By the end of the week, he would ask for the fidget. "Where is the red thing?" he would say - almost first thing in the morning. I was terrified of him from the beginning. Whispering my concerns to my peers . . .seeking advice from anyone and everyone. I was surprised that no one really said, "Oh yes, I've seen that before." I usually got a contemplative "hmm" in response. He showed up in my life at the same time I was developing a sensory workshop for a child development course and an autism/sensory processing/behavior disorder awareness workshop for a disabilities studies course. And here he was. And now I know. These are the kids with whom I am meant to be. � � |