“How did Max get that bump on his brain?”
That’s my best friend’s five-year-old talking. It’s how my friend explained Max’s disabilities to her. It’s Saturday, and we are driving in our car; Max is actually in my friend’s car, because he thought it would be fun to trade, and her daughter is riding with us and my four-year-old.
I feel the tears well up. I cannot believe the tears still well up. I am glad I am sitting in the front seat and she and my four-year-old can’t see my face.
“It happened when he was born, honey,” I say, and that seems to satisfy her.
My husband gives me a look; I know the question pains him, too. We are quiet for a bit, and then the moment passes and things are the same again.
And then, we have friends over for a barbecue on Sunday. Their 7-year-old comes into the kitchen as I’m taking stuff out of the fridge. “How come Max is sick?” he asks. I know instantly what he means. “Do you mean, how come Max doesn’t talk the way you do?” I ask. He nods. I say, “He can’t talk exactly like you, but he talks in his own way.”
Generally, I don’t feel like I owe adults explanations why Max is the way he is. But with kids, there’s no avoiding the topic. They engage you. They want to know. They are curious. And I want them to know, too—to educate them about kids with special needs and to make sure they aren’t afraid of Max.
And so, I keep my answer matter-of-fact and my tone light as I respond even though, inside, my heart is breaking a little.
Ellen blogs daily at To The Max