A Little Child

The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them.

Isaiah 11:6

We almost didn't go the park today.  It was crowded; there was a herd of kids too big to be at the playground anyways, without parents.  The weather was gorgeous though, and I had promised Layla we would go.  I know she’s too young to realize when I've broken a promise, but it’s not something I want to start doing.  Misgivings aside, I unbuckled the straps on her stroller, and put her down. 

It took maybe five seconds before she was off and running.  She squealed, giggled, and clapped through a turn on the swings, raced around the jungle gym a few times, and then, she realized there are 3 sets of slides there.  Slides are her favorite thing, it’s something she can do by herself, and anything that allows her to be just that much more independent is something she is all about. 

She went up the ramp onto the jungle gym, and then down the slide several times, navigating through the older kids, saying hi, jabbering, and having a good time.  I was perpetually 5 steps behind her, trying to juggle a much needed cup of coffee, keep an eye on our stuff, and keep both eyes on her, at the same time. 

All the while she played, I was aware of a couple, a mom and dad, and their little boy.   He played by himself, and they stood very close to him.  That isn’t unusual for me, in public I tend to be on Layla’s heels as much as I can.  But there was something, different, some intangible distinction, in how they watched him, interacted with him. 

Several trips down the slide and back up onto the jungle gym later, those same parents were trying to coax their little boy onto the ramp up to the slide.  They offered all the encouragement, all the pep talks they could, and he was making slow, but steady progress on his own.  Until that herd of stomping, yelling, running into everything kids made their reappearance.  Scared, and nearly trampled, he went back to his mother, and refused to go up the ramp. 

I know my child, and I know the independent, afraid-of-nothing streak that dominates her personality.  Like the genes for her blue eyes, that is something I passed down to her.  I walked Layla over to the little boy, and told her to say hi, hoping that if he saw her, his age, his height, running up the ramp to those wonderful slides, he would go to.  When he looked up at her, the realization why his parents were so careful, so watchful, with him, dawned on me.  He had the sweetest little heart-shaped face, and a small little chin, and I knew, without a word from his parents that he was special. 

Before I could catch Layla by the hand, look down at her, and explain that she needed to be careful, not to be so rough-and-tumble, to be nice (we’re going through a hitting stage right now), she did her Miss America wave, and chirped a hi at him.  It took a few seconds, before he said hi back.   Layla turned to the slides, and asked, in this high pitched, girly little voice, so different from the monster voice she screams in at home, “Slide??”

When she didn't get a response, she reached for his hand, and tugged and pulled until he was on his feet.  They’re the same height, and I marveled at both her strength, and her sheer determination, to get him up.  Before I knew what she was doing, she was walking, hand in hand with him, up the slide.  His mother followed closely behind, while I just stood and watched.  At the top of the slide, Layla stopped.  Normally, that is the spot where she throws herself down, and arms and legs going whichever way, goes down the slide, more often than not on her belly, sometimes upside down, sometimes head first.  And that spot was where she stopped, repeated her question of slide again, and waited.  A few seconds later, after some coaxing from his mother, he went down the slide, and Layla went down after him. 

I expected that this moment of genuine empathy would burst, and my sprout would be back to her wild self.  Instead, she reached for his hand, led him around the ramp, and up it again, and they went down the slide again, and again, she waited for him at the bottom.  The third time he went down the slide, he smiled, and Layla clapped and hopped up and down.  When their little corner of the playground started to get noisy and crowded, she led him to a different spot to play, a child-sized bus they can play in, and they played there.  She talked and jabbered non-stop, a steady stream of baby talk, interspersed with the words she knows, bus, car, bye bye, slide, outside, owie (something she repeats even when she isn't hurt) every word she knew, she made sure he heard them too. 

She treated him like she does everyone else, was happy and cheerful, yet more careful, around him.  There was no pushing and hitting, not once did I catch her eyeballing his fingers, which typically means a bite is coming.  She was not the wild child I know.  When she was red-faced and sweaty, I asked her if it was time to go home.  Around a mouthful of apple, she said yes, and then she took a piece of apple, a half of the cookie she still had, walked up to the little boy, and offered him both.  Of all the things my smart little child does, sharing is not one of them; in true first-born style, she thinks everything is hers.  So for her to offer an apple, her favorite food right now, and a cookie, something she doesn't get much of, shocked me. 

By this point in time, I had been sniffling back tears, the happy kind, the proud kind, frequently.  And I was well aware that I was probably getting raccoon-eyed.  While busy packing up, and wiping spilled coffee of the stroller, I realized his Mom was standing in front of me.  She has to be close to my age, but she carries a heavier burden than I do, and it shows.  I know that worn-out, exhausted look the parent of a special-needs child has.  And she explained to me that Layla was one of the first children to play with her little boy, to not see something different, to be patient when he grew scared and to cheer him on when he did something new.  She said, wiping her own tears away, that most children see the Downs Syndrome, and not the little boy behind it.  And she thanked me, for letting them play, and for raising a little girl (she is not my baby anymore), who saw only the little boy, and not anything different.  As we walked away, Layla was waving goodbye, and jabbering, and I heard his mom say that today had been a really good day. 

Layla does not see different yet, and I know that.  But I go out of my way to keep that in her, to see that little boy as just that, a little boy.  I hope she never sees people for their differences, but rather for the streak of humanity that bonds us all together. 

Today, Layla became the teacher once again.  And this time, she taught me what will happen, when a let my little child lead me.  Magical things happen.  

~Jennifer