Louise allowed us to look into the classrooms briefly before moving on.
“We have an almost equal mix of children with and without disabilities. Thorin wouldn’t be the only child with Down syndrome.”
Ward asked, “How’d you create that ratio? Why would parents send their children here if they didn’t have a disability?”
Louise smiled. “Some parents believe diversity of all kinds is important to their children’s development. Also we have numerous siblings here. Parents want their children at the same school.”
We filled in Louise on what had happened to Thorin at the other school. She didn’t say much but she seemed attentive. She recommended Thorin have a tour before his first day at the school, so he would have an easier transition.
We learned that the chair Thorin had been restrained in was actually a therapeutic chair. The belt was designed to help children with low muscle tone. Cinched to the point of abuse was actually a manufacturer concern. Ward and I both noted a few of the chairs at the new school. I wondered how Thorin would feel about seeing them.
When we came back to the school with Thorin, Louise gave him the same tour, fortunately without noting the blackout shades or lockdown protocol. She focused on what he liked doing, what he ate for lunch, and his favorite color. When he signed “yellow,” he was pleased to know she understood him.
Louise showed us a room that looked like a large closet, maybe five square feet. It was cramped and contained a small table with three chairs and shelves packed with games, puzzles, and books. Ward and I stood outside the room while Louise and Thorin went in.
“This is the speech room, Thorin. The door can stay open when you are in here, if you’d like.” Then she pointed to a chair identical to the one used to restrain him. “Thorin, we cut the straps off this chair. Can you see they are gone?”
He nodded yes.
“Thorin, this is your chair. We’ve put your name on it, see?”
Thorin pushed himself upright against the chair to study his name written in marker on the back. He smoothed his hands over the frayed webbing left from the belt.
Looking at her, he signed, “Thank you.”
It was hard to hold back the tears, but I did. Thorin was stoic about it, and I would be, too.
On Thorin’s first day of class, I carried him into the building. He was not fearful but excited. Thorin gave me a quick kiss then went off with his teacher, crawling quickly alongside her. I saw other parents pulling their clinging children’s bodies off their own so they could make their escape. I was relieved Thorin seemed happy to be rid of me. The alternative looked dreadful and undignified.
Thorin’s physical development took off after he started at the school. In the previous months, we had encouraged him to walk, but he met us with what I thought was resistance. When I would see him take a step or two, I would get so excited and yell, “Great job, Thorin,” which caused him to jump and hermit crab scuttle away from me, all the while looking over his shoulder. As we walked outside, I would suggest he touch my fingertips and walk, but he would drop to the ground and start fast crawling away.
I tried bribing him with animal crackers. Sitting on the couch, I said in a cheery voice, “Hey, Thorin, walk just this little bit to me, and you can have a cookie!”
No response.
“It’s a lion!” I said followed by a roar. I had never faked roared in my life, and listening to myself, I realized even I wasn’t buying it.
Thorin gave me a disgusted look then pulled himself up as he held on to the coffee table. He made his way over to me, never letting go along the way, smiled broadly, and put his little hand out to take the cookie. He bested me and he knew it.
I shared our adventures in walking with his physical therapist at the school.
“Thorin has low body tone. He needs to develop his strength so he can truly feel confident in supporting himself,” she explained. “I know you think you’re supporting him, but it might feel like pressure.”
“Pressuring?” I immediately felt like Mommie Dearest. As I looked at her, I nodded affirmatively, but inside I told myself I was a fraud for not knowing what Thorin needed.
Forcing an energetic and grateful tone, I added, “Thanks for telling me this! I can dial it back and focus on what he needs.”
“Sounds good!” she said.
“Terrific!” I replied. Once I had a few hours of distance from that conversation, I came to the realization I was not a fraud, just a parent on a learning curve.
Thorin developed his strength quickly with the physical therapist’s businesslike instructions. In no time, Thorin was walking a few steps, falling, getting back up, and trying again. Ward and I held back on the overboard praise. One evening I told Thorin, using a normal tone of voice, that he was doing a good job walking as I pretended to watch Project Runway. Inside I was jubilant. Our pulling back made room for Thorin to show off rather than perform.
A few weeks later my sister, Ward, and I were sitting in a circle on the living room floor with Thorin.
“Hey, Buddy can you take two steps to me?” Betty asked.
Thorin pulled himself up and staggered over like Baby Frankenstein. We all offered subdued praise: “Nice job, Dude,” or some variation of that was said by each of us. Then Ward asked Thorin to walk across the circle to him. The distance was four steps, which he handled like a champ.
“More!” Thorin signed excitedly.
The three of us casually spread our circle out to increase the distance he would need
