Mean

It's never fun when you pick your children up from school and notice another kid making direct eye contact with you as he walks towards you with a purpose. I know immediately what's going on.

He's coming to tell me something that my kid did. He's coming to get my kid in trouble.

I know this kid. He's in a class with my 2nd grader. Last year they were frenemies, but this year he talks about this kid positively so I thought that maybe their relationship had improved. I was wrong.

The kid proceeds to tell me about something annoying and rude my kid did a few weeks ago (he's been holding onto this for 3 weeks, waiting for his opportunity). He had no other motivation than to tattle on my child, because the issue had already been resolved. He wanted me to know that my child was annoying him. He wanted to make it clear that they were not friends. And while I believed the story he told me, it made me sad for my son.

I knew this day would come.

Rocky and I have been talking about our child for almost a year now. His differences. His delays. His disabilities. We knew that in time, the gap between he and his peers would widen and he might be rejected. We suspected, to a degree, that kids would not understand him, find it hard to relate to him, be bothered by him and his immaturity. We thought it might happen soon.

I still wasn't prepared for his confession.

"I just want to play with them, but no one wants to be my friend!"

And his tears flowed as I hugged him and kissed his forehead.

Kids can be mean, I said.

Why do you think they don't want to be your friend?

What kinds of things do they say to you?

My thoughts were confirmed: They find him annoying and mean.

The mean part threw me for a loop until he explained. Sometimes, to get back at them for excluding him, he tattles on them to get them in trouble. Sometimes he lies and blames them for things they didn't do. He wants them to hurt like he hurts, only he can't articulate that. Not yet.

And my heart breaks for him.

Because he truly does not get it. He's so oblivious. He sees kids playing and he doesn't understand how there isn't room for one more. Even if I could explain it to him, tell him what's going on, he wouldn't be able to understand it in a way that would help him fix things. He will hear my words, and he will nod his head, but it will go nowhere. He can't change. At least not yet.

My son looks normal.

He's tall, likes to play sports and draw, has tons of energy and loves to be a good helper. He is friendly, shouting "hi" to people that he knows across the street. He is thoughtful and empathic. He remembers if you said you've been sick and when it's his turn to say grace at dinnertime, he prays for you. My son has disabilities you cannot see.

While it's easy to remain hopeful while he is so young, I would be lying if I said that we did not lay awake at night wondering what kind of life he might lead with his limitations. What that will mean for him and his desire to become a husband and father. We hope and pray that he will end up high-functioning, happy and healthy. Of course, in dark moments, we fear the worst.

As a parent, the hope part is so important. Without it, the day-to-day struggles will swallow you whole. The setbacks will make you so frustrated, so sad, so tired, that you will need the hope to get you through another day. And my son needs that hope, too. All of humanity needs that hope.

And prayer.

Lots and lots of prayer.