The R word.  Retarded. I hate the R word.  I hate when it is directed at someone in humor – “Hahahaha! You’re so retarded!”. I hate when it is directed at someone in cruelty – “Are you retarded?”. 

I. hate. that. word. 

Yesterday, my boy was on the bus headed home from school, and some smart-mouthed wildling on the bus asked him, “Are you retarded?”.  My boy is NOT retarded – as a matter of fact, he clearly SOARS in intelligence far and away above the hellion that asked the question. Intelligence would have looked beyond any differences that may still be detectable in my boy to find the awesomely cool, funny, and enjoyable young man that he is.  Intelligence would have recognized that sometimes what makes a person different is exactly what makes them amazing.  For example, my boy isn’t cruel – he would never have asked another student such a question.  He has never used the R word against another person. He would never reject another person. He doesn’t see differences – he sees people and knows that we’re ALL different.  He doesn’t follow the crowd, doesn’t get caught up in trends, doesn’t rebel against authority because it’s “cool”, doesn’t disrespect his teachers, parents, bus driver, other students, or anyone else with whom he interacts.  My boy is kind, gentle, loving, empathetic, generous, entertaining, outgoing, helpful, friendly, and GOOD. My boy is all that is good and right in this world that’s rapidly going crazy.  He’s a true friend when true friends are hard to find.  The bus brat will never know all these things, however, because he only sees an opportunity to lash out, to bully, to speak hurtful words in an attempt to be “funny” to the other wildlings around him. 

My boy told me about the incident, and I was livid.  I’m still livid.  I want to jump in my car and drive to the house where my boy indicates the wildling lives.  I want to go, knock on the door, and tell his parents that they’re raising a hellion, slap the smirk off the offending mouth and tell him that his cruelty and attempt at humor has blinded him to the opportunity to know an amazing person.  I want to shame his parents. I want them all to feel the same pain that my boy felt – that I feel. I want to return cruelty for cruelty. It’s human nature blended with Mama Bear rage – I was ready to kick butt and take names.  Then, my boy….my amazing, wonderful boy…said, “But, he apologized.”

And that was it.  Right there, in three words, my boy demonstrated the Love and Forgiveness of Christ. I have no doubt the words still sting him – but, he apologized. So, we have to forgive.  Can I be honest and say that I don’t WANT to forgive?  I want to write a scathing letter to school administration, have the boy yanked from the bus and disciplined, reprimand the bus driver for allowing hate-filled words to be uttered on his bus.  I know.  It’s illogical.  Doesn’t matter; I’m a Mom and I want justice.  But, he apologized.

Oh, to have a heart like my boy – that doesn’t bear grudges, that readily forgives, gives a zillion second chances, and then starts over on third chances when the seconds run out. 70 x 7 fleshed out by a boy who sees life through different eyes.  The world would be a beautiful place if there were more eyes and hearts like his.  I would be a better person were I more like he is.  Funny, how as parents we watch our children and look for ourselves in them.  More often, I find myself watching him and looking for him in me.  He is my teacher, more than I’ve ever been his.

So, I’ll step back from my agenda of retribution.  I’ll wait to see what the future bus rides bring – perhaps a friendship, perhaps more cruel words. It remains to be seen how this will play out in the coming days.  If a friendship grows, I’ll be glad I held my tongue and accepted my son’s words, “But, he apologized.” If more cruelty comes, then I’ve got more ammunition to use in my scathing letter – and perhaps a good defense should I resort to mayhem. Mama Mayhem. It has a certain ring to it. I like it.  You can call me that. J

Last First Day of School.  Words that make the faces of shiny new high school seniors beam with joy and anticipation…and make the worry-worn and weary faces of their mothers pucker with barely contained tears - commingled sorrow and pride. Today was that day for my youngest son – and for me. He is my baby, all 6’3” of him – in my mind and heart, still a hip-high Kindergartener walking into the school, slightly ahead of me – and then RUNNING into the waiting arms of a beloved Speech & Language Therapist, leaving Mommy to walk, solo, the remaining distance to his first classroom.  I found him there, the Traitor, already settled in a desk with bright, colorful things taped to the desktop to draw his attention.  I remember standing, not quite certain of what to do next…I hadn’t expected this; I hadn’t expected him to not need me that day - of all days. I needed him to need me.  Worry, sorrow, and pride fought for control of my emotions. A brief word with his wonderful teacher, aide, and SLT; a kiss & hug from my guy and I was on my way out – tears winning the war with my eyelids and dripping from my lashes, all hopes of a dignified, stalwart exit dashed as I hurried, head bent to hide my failed attempt to not cry, to the door and to my waiting Jeep. 

Fast forward – LITERALLY! We went through a time warp or something! – a dozen years later to today. Last First Day of School.  My hip-high baby is now a towering Gigantor, with a quick wit, amazing talent, and a sharp, intelligent mind who can match his Mom’s (no longer Mommy; I graduated to “Mom” somewhere along the way) sarcastic tongue lash for lash.  I drove him to school, asking questions along the way – “Do you have your pens?” “Do you have your house key?” “Is your phone charged?” “Do you know where your first class is?” “Are you sure this is where I need to drop you off?”  Each question answered in a tone increasingly frustrated until finally, “Mom. I’ve got this.” brought a halt to my questions. I can’t help it.  I needed him to need me, just one more time.   A quick air kiss, “Thanks, Mom. I love you.” and he was out the door, walking the confident, sure walk of the upperclassman toward the building to begin his Senior year.  I drove away, not daring to look over my shoulder, lest I embarrass him.

Oh, I know he needs me.  All boys need their Mom – no matter their age.  I know that there are lessons to be taught, corrections to be made, comfort to be offered, wisdom to be shared – my work isn’t done.  He will need me for a while yet – and then, when he no longer needs me, it is my prayer that he will want me to have a supporting role in his life…in the background, blended in to remain unobtrusive, cheering, encouraging, advising – coach, friend, Mom.  Ours is a relationship that is as unique, different, and wonderful as he is.  I think it always will be.  That makes me happy.

Tonight, on the eve of his Last Second Day of School, I finally told him the story of his diagnosis with autism. Oh, he knew of the diagnosis, but I’d never taken the time to tell him the story. I told him of the questions and concerns that led me to request a referral from his doctor. I told him of the initial diagnosis of a severe language delay, and ultimately, of the diagnosis of autism.  I told him of the school system’s request to send him to an autism classroom at another school in another district and how I had refused and fought for his placement in our home district, in a general education classroom, with an aide, because I REFUSED to just give in to autism. I refused to give up on him. I told him how proud I am of him and how far he has come; how I know there is nothing that he cannot accomplish, no dream he can’t reach because he is an overcomer. 

His eyes shone with tears. I asked him not to cry – his story is a happy one; it is a story of victory! He briefly excused himself to blow his nose, then he returned to my side to thank me for fighting for him.  For not giving up on him. I had mistaken his tears for sadness; they were tears of gratitude.

He thanked me.  My hero thanked me. 

Senior year.  Class of 2016.  8 months until graduation. 279 days.  I can do this. I’ll be okay.  We’ll both be okay. 

Run, Daniel, Run!  Hebrews 12:1.