Tiny Bubbles

(Bangs head on table.)

Why? Why? Why?

Why do I keep doing this to myself? By now, I should know that living in a flowery bubble is so much better for my heart. Don’t break the bubble. Don’t venture outside the protective shell. And, certainly, CERTAINLY, stay away from people who carry pins.

You know, like those scary, pin-wielding kindergarteners.

Pop, pop, pop.

EVERY TIME.

I walk into Ellie’s classroom with determination and zeal, ready to conquer. I pray that I will see Ellie catching up to the other kids. I rally my heart, convinced that I’ll be able to handle it this go ‘round.

I lasted about five minutes today. Then, I began fighting the battle against the tears forming in the eyes of my soul.

Every kid was writing their name on the top of the worksheet. Legibly. Every kid was reading the word “the”. Easily. Every kid was counting by tens. Effortlessly. Every kid was cutting out their shapes. Painlessly.

Every kid except mine, that is.

Did Ellie notice that she was the only one not completing the task? I don’t think so. Was Ellie happy tracing the letter-that-she-can’t-yet-recognize in her macaroni? Totally. Why, then, did *I* notice? And, tell me, why wasn’t *I* happy? It doesn’t make any sense, because Ellie’s happiness is always my top priority.

I was in Ellie’s class today because the vision therapist was coming to observe her for the first time. Of course, when one therapist comes, the whole team follows. It’s FANTASTIC that they communicate and that they’re all pulling together for Ellie’s success. But, at one point this afternoon, I looked at the scene in the kindergarten classroom and sighed.

Surrounding Ellie were SIX adults—the EA, the occupational therapist, the speech therapist, the vision therapist, the teacher and the mom. The other kids were seated at their desks, working on their writing skills while my daughter was surrounded by a special needs entourage.

Pop, pop, pop.

Another mom was helping out in the classroom. She noticed that Ellie was starting to get impatient, listening to all the “big people” talk about her. The mom, in a gracious effort, snuck into the circle and gave Ellie a box filled with Mr. Potato Head parts.

My first reaction to this gesture? I wanted to punch the other mom in the face.

Don’t take pity on me! Don’t be so condescending as to think you can shove a box of toys in front of my kid and hide your sympathy! Don’t mask the fact that you look at me and think, “Thank God MY daughter isn’t like THAT!” Don’t try to be friends with me! Don’t try to talk to me! Don’t say that you understand! You DON'T understand! I didn't want it this way! This wasn't the plan! I wanted to be YOU!

Of course, I smiled at the other mom and mouthed “thank you”, while my heart was screaming insults. Completely unwarranted insults.

I hate going to Ellie’s class. There, I said it.

What kind of mom feels that way? And, more importantly, what do I do about it?

Do I force myself to continue my monthly classroom volunteering stint? Or is it okay for me to come up with some sort of excuse that will get me out of it? Do I need to suck it up, because sooner or later, Ellie will pick up on my feelings (which is my nightmare)? Will Ellie think that I'm disappointed in HER?

Is my pretty little bubble unhealthy?

Sigh. It’s been a rough day. Thankfully, tomorrow is Conductive Education day. A day when every kid in Ellie’s class uses a walker. A day when the entourage encapsulates every student. A good day, smack-dab in the middle of the bubble.