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- Parenting
- My Beautifully Flawed Child
by Jamie Harlow
Updated: Jan. 27, 2015
Originally Published: July 7, 2011
Today’s weather was simply delightful—a crisp 65 degrees with a sky that was a brilliant, cloudless blue. Armed with our bright red wagon, a collection of sippy cups, and an assortment of snacks, I set out with my two little ones: a spirited three-year-old boy and a feisty almost-two-year-old girl. We hopped into the car, joining a throng of about 500 others, all eager to soak in the sunny day at the zoo.
As my toddler basked in the leisurely wagon ride, my son confidently approached each animal enclosure, his eyes lighting up at the sight of tigers, lions, and giraffes. Just yesterday, he was a timid little guy, clinging to my leg in the occupational therapist’s office. We were there for an evaluation after his well-meaning preschool teachers expressed concerns about his readiness for school.
My son, with his sparkling honey-colored eyes, is incredibly sensitive and often displays behaviors that some might consider immature. He turned three just two months ago, and at home, his go-to reaction to any frustration—be it a spilled cookie or a disapproving glance from his sister—is to whine or cry.
At school, however, he transforms. He clings to me for a reassuring hug, seeking a promise that I’ll return after lunch. He’s the quiet one who never cries and doesn’t snatch toys from others. He socializes with peers but prefers to immerse himself in the train tables, playground, and books. Yet during circle time, when he’s called to stand and be counted, he visibly withdraws, curling in on himself like a butterfly retreating into its chrysalis. It’s a remarkable change—he tightens up beneath his Gymboree shirt, his mouth drooping as he shuts down.
One day, I watched this scene unfold. “Come up here,” the teacher urged gently. He remained frozen, perhaps hoping to be overlooked. “Stand up,” she prompted, and after a slow, almost painful shuffle, he complied, resembling Charlie Brown in his walk. “Can you find the yellow triangle and place it on the board?” Again, he froze.
From my hidden vantage point, I was a bundle of nerves, biting my hangnail, desperate to shout, “Just do it! You know how!” But I remained silent, feeling powerless. “Just do it,” I urged silently.
“Okay,” the teacher continued, “lean down and pick up the shape.” Slowly, he obliged, but as he looked at the board, his feet seemed glued to the floor. “Place it on the board. Right there. No, there,” she instructed. Finally, he did, only to stand still again. “Move it!” I willed him. “Now, return to your seat,” the teacher said, and he slumped down, visibly more at ease.
I know my child well. We spend nearly all our time together, save for the eight hours at his Mother’s Day Out. The teachers don’t witness his tears or fully grasp his shyness. They don’t realize how much he shies away from attention. With a baby sister just 16 months younger, he’s also still clinging to remnants of babyhood that were overshadowed by sibling rivalry. But he just processes the world at his own pace.
So, we ventured into occupational therapy for an impartial assessment. As I pried him off my leg, I guided him into a small chair. The therapist, with her kind demeanor, handed him a crayon and asked him to color. He, being left-handed, awkwardly grasped the crayon in his right hand, nervously resting his left arm over his forehead as he timidly dotted the page.
I sat beside him, biting my lip, resisting the urge to correct him. A series of tasks were set before him—cutting, drawing, naming objects—and many were marked as areas needing improvement. “Does a just-turned-three-year-old really need to master scissors?” I questioned. Really?
But today, today at the zoo, everything felt different. Surrounded by hundreds of exuberant children marveling at the animals and the sunny splendor, my “developmentally delayed” son blended in seamlessly with the crowd. Did all these kids share hidden struggles?
Kids have a unique way of tugging at a parent’s heartstrings, but today, something felt healing. Perhaps it was the vibrant sunshine that infused me with hope or the gentle breeze rustling the trees. Or maybe it was my sweet boy, with his cherubic curls and generous hugs, freely sharing “I love you’s.”
I’m not entirely sure what it was, but for a fleeting moment, I witnessed the beauty in my so-called “imperfect” child.
In Summary
In summary, the journey of parenting a sensitive child can often feel overwhelming as we navigate their unique challenges. However, moments of joy, like a day at the zoo, can reveal the hidden beauty in our children’s quirks and imperfections, reminding us that every child has their own strengths and triumphs. If you’re interested in exploring more about fertility and home insemination, check out this insightful resource on Couples’ Fertility Journey. For additional information on pregnancy and home insemination, visit NHS IVF.
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