“We don’t know what you are talking about, okay?” he said as the other two laughed.
Seriously? How did I get here? I’m a middle-aged woman being threatened by jerks who made fun of my son. I walked away confused and disgusted.
When I got back to the bench my mom said, “You have to be careful. I was worried one of them was going to hurt you!”
“I don’t want to be careful anymore.”
At the next theater class, I dropped Thorin off and left the building like all the other parents did. As I was leaving, I asked the receptionist, who I now knew to be Molly, “You have my number, right?
“I do!”
“Are there any other exits?”
“Just that one,” she said, pointing to the front door.
“What if Thorin got away?”
“We haven’t lost anyone yet. Try not to worry.”
She was right. I didn’t have to worry there. Nothing bad had happened. Besides, Thorin liked being independent. He didn’t need an Ed Tech to assist him, and there was a whole new world to explore. But, I needed to trust him.
On the way home, I asked Thorin what other classes he wanted to take.
“Ballet,” he replied.
“Really? I didn’t know that!”
“Love ballet.”
I knew he was interested but not to the degree he would want to take a class. We had watched a documentary on ballet, which Thorin had watched more than once by himself. Also he loved The Nutcracker. I found Spotlight Dance and Performing Arts Center through a friend of mine whose daughters danced. I called Heather, the director, and explained to her Thorin had asked to take ballet and he had Down syndrome.
“Okay, I see a couple potential issues.”
Here it comes, I thought. What will be the problem?
“Uh, huh,” I cautiously replied.
“We don’t have just ballet for his age group, so it would be ballet, jazz, and tap. Also, he’s going to be the only boy in the class.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s fine! Thank you!” The world outside of school was so much easier to navigate. No one seemed to care if Thorin had Down syndrome. He was welcome. He was included. He wasn’t a problem.
At the final theater class, the children performed for their parents and anyone else they invited. Ward took time off from work so we could both be there. Bubba wanted to go, but between her walker and the amount of walking, it would have been too much for her. When we walked in, Thorin was in his costume and makeup, sitting in the audience. Jamie walked over.
“Thorin said he doesn’t want to perform today.”
Ward turned toward Thorin. “No, Buddy?”
“No, Dad.”
I asked, “Are you sure, Honey?”
“Sure.”
I’d learned my lesson when it came to pressuring and simply said, “Okay.”
The three of us sat together during the performance. His teacher, Jamie, reminded everyone there was a new class starting the next month.
“Thorin do want to do that?” I asked.
“Yesith!”
I talked to Jamie on the way out. I told her Thorin wanted to be in the next class.
“Great! Sometimes it’s about the journey,” she offered.
During the months leading up to leaving public school, Thorin had become a different child. He had frequent insomnia. He had crying jags and angry outbursts. He suffered regression on all levels: wetting the bed; things he once did were difficult again; and not wanting to read at home. He stopped taking photographs. And, he stopped growing. Thorin had stayed the same height for nine months.
I needed to slow down things at home. I needed to understand how Thorin processed information. I noticed he took the path of least resistance. When working on his reading one day, I observed he said “that” for “hat” or “down” instead of “away.”
I asked, “Are you guessing?”
“Yesith!” he responded cheerfully.
“Did you guess at school?”
“Yesith!”
I slapped my hand on the table, “From now on we live in No Guessing Zone. We’ll sound out the words instead.”
I remembered Kathy’s advice about using Thorin’s interests, so I created reading material suited just for him. I titled the sheets “Thorin’s Super Awesome Sentences!” The sentences had meaning for Thorin: “Thor eats cake with Iron Man”; “Spider Man can make blue cake”; and “Hulk likes smash cake.” There was also Thorin’s Super Great Cake Sentences, which were hyperfocused on cake, no Avengers. “Let’s make a cake! Come look at the cake. Did you make the cake? Who will eat the cake?” And, “I had too much cake.”
I learned Thorin needed more time to respond. Like many parents, I was so quick to interrupt his silence because I didn’t realize he needed more “think time” before answering. Once I made that discovery, I would count to myself while Thorin thought: ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds, and, once, even forty seconds. What I thought was dead space was actually processing time that allowed Thorin to answer correctly.
Another thing I slowly realized is that learning was a fearful proposition for Thorin. He had been made to feel dumb in the past. When we would start anything new, I would casually take his hand in mine. It worked! That touch, that reassurance, made a difference. Even if he didn’t get it right, he was still willing to work until he did.
We began to learn antonyms. Thorin grasped those for “hot,” “up,” “out,” and “down,” but for more complex words, he seemed to get confused.
“Cloudy,” I said.
“Movie star,” he responded, which totally perplexed me.
I decided to keep giving him words, thinking something had to give. I finally figured out what was going on when he replied “Project Runway” after I said the word “young.”
“Are you saying something you know I like instead of ‘I don’t know’?”
“I am.”
“Did you do that at school?”
“I did!”
At that point, I began to understand his strategy at school: get them to stop asking anything.
I looked at Thorin smiling and told him, “It’s okay not to know something. From now on when you don’t know something, just say ‘I don’t
