God makes them cute so you don't kill them. In fact, God made Youngest so beyond Gerber baby cute, I began to wonder who his parents were. But, by the time he was 4 I knew why. God had a plan for him, and it involved me not killing him by his fifth birthday.
Youngest was 11 months old when his father left. He was not quick to speak, but when he did it was concise and articulate. He internalized everything from a very young age, and then without warning, unleashed his every emotion on anything, anyone in his path. He broke a computer at 3, knocked over 200 pound anchored bookcases at 4, and kicked a well meaning, but completely misguided day care worker's bridge right out of her mouth. He took it out on himself as well, shoving raisins up his nose, stabbing himself with pencils, and escaping from various classrooms and playgrounds by the time he was five.
I sought counselling for all of us, and multiple highly paid professionals diagnosed him with one thing or another. He had more labels than a spice rack, bipolar, manic, Op-positional Defiant Disorder, Autism Spectrum, ADHD, the list was endless. Add to this a delusional, vindictive father who fabricated stories which both his sons under age four truly believed. They wanted his love and approval, and played right into his seeded destructive game, regardless of the consequences. Youngest was heavily medicated, expelled from daycare over and over, and at age FOUR it was suggested that I relinquish my rights and check him into Mass General Psychiatric Ward for testing. Seeing my resistance to their professional opinion, I was then told that he'd likely never amount to a viable part of society, would never have friends, and would always struggle.
The whole world had seemed to have turned on us, so I turned a blind eye right back and kept trudging through. It was this persistence that lead me to a therapist that recognized what was going on with their father and through legal means (yet definitely dicey borderline breach of practice) ensured I got what I needed for both of my boys. She found ways around their company policy and spoke confidentially to different agencies to allow me to get what I needed for both my boys. We were not just another broken family to her, and her act of kindness was the first time I had felt like our little family of three would be just fine.
It could not have been easy for my parents to have us back living in their home when my divorce became final. It would have likely been easier to tell me to lay in the bed I had made, but instead they renovated their home to accommodate all three of us. Their once nearly empty, quiet home was now filled with obnoxiously loud screaming toddlers, safety gates on every door, and the unmistakable aroma of diaper permeated the once pristine formal living room. And lest not forget those fabulous door knob covers that made it near impossible to get into the bathroom in a hurry, or the safety plugs in every. stinking. outlet. But, it was their act of kindness that allowed me to refocus and buy our first home.
Being a working mother meant full time day care. Countless day care centers, each one a fantastic fit until something happened. And then it would start. The rolling of eyes when we walked in, the deep sighs when I'd say it had been a rough morning. Just as it seemed we'd be moving on, viable options of local centers dwindling, there was one person who saw in him what I saw. She worked with him, she learned his language, she loved him. She hugged him and let him fall asleep on her lap, State guidelines be damned. She'd call to check on him when he was home sick and always made sure he got the care he needed. She lost her job eventually, and while I don't know the specifics, I know that those things she did for Youngest, the things he NEEDED, were all pieces of the bigger picture. Her act of kindness, her act of unconditional love, gave him the tools he needed to form his very first real friendship, one that still lasts through today.
By the time he reached 3rd grade many things had changed. We were able to more definitively diagnosis his behavior. He maintained a gluten free diet and many of his symptoms had disappeared. And, while the school system had been relatively supportive in the past, as the school work increased, and his previous behavior was buried in paperwork, and his new classroom environment became another catalyst. When my concerns were voiced I was repeatedly told "it must be something at home, it can not be the teacher or the classroom". Having no where to turn, and no starting point from which to jump, my aunt stepped in. A former children's advocate, she advocated for him free of charge, taking time off from her current job, reading up on the latest guidelines, and made every meeting to ensure he would get what he needed for education. Suddenly all my earlier voiced concerns were being heard, aids were placed in his classroom, and during the last two months of school it was finally admitted that maybe it wasn't home, but his classroom placement that was the issue. Without my aunt's act of kindness, I have no idea where he'd be.
By fourth grade with my aunt's help and a solid IEP, he had been placed in a proper environment for his learning. An inclusion classroom, a low ratio of students, with a seasoned teacher who had earned her masters in special education. She was firm but willing to compromise. She too took the time to learn his language, and she learned quickly how to recognize when he needed a break. She helped him get his reading to grade level. She celebrated his success, and communicated his progress with me on a daily basis. The day his father died, she was home sick. Regardless, she pulled herself out of bed and went in to see him for lunch, just to make sure he was okay.
When she was told she'd be going to 5th grade, she told me she'd have "never let any other teacher have him". And, for the second year in a row, she has willingly dealt with his anxiety, panic attacks, frustration, and success. One particularly frustrating day when he had to write observations within the classroom, he noted that there were wipe boards, kids reading, and that he had to do stupid writing assignments. Sandwiched among his observations, she saw that he had written "I notice that my teacher never gives up on me."
Her act of kindness has ensured that Youngest has never given up on himself.
All too often when we think of random acts of kindness, we think of strangers doing one time niceties. The impact of such an act can set forth a ripple of good fortune for days to come, or it could just make someone smile. But LIVING a life of random kindness, when it's not convenient, not easy, not company policy, those are the acts that can change a life. I don't know where I'd be if these people or any of the others had chosen an easier path, or listened to the professional opinions instead of their hearts. But I do know that I would not be watching him sink two points at a basketball game. He would have never had the confidence to run a 5K in 27 minutes or compete for his blue belt in Karate. He would not find joy in planting sunflowers, or helping a baby bird to safety. And I definitely would not have just celebrated his eleventh birthday surrounded by real friends, ones that support him and want to be around him, regardless of the the day he's having.
And THAT act of kindness has made it all worthwhile.
