momma mommy bwuh

Story time.

Near the end of the last school year, I volunteered at an event at my boys’ school. I picked a time when I knew I’d see both of them participate. The way their faces light up when they spot me at school — that pure joy — it’s exactly how my heart feels when I see them there. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s everything.

The event included some outdoor free-play for the entire school (one grade at a time) — chaotic in the best and most exhausting way. There were teachers and volunteers helping to supervise, but the main goal was to make sure everyone stayed safe and followed directions.

That day ended up being one of the hardest days I’ve experienced as a parent. Maybe the hardest. And that’s saying something, considering I have a child with a seizure disorder.

Boy1 struggles with social interactions. He can’t speak the way other kids do. He makes sounds that might seem unusual to his peers. And the truth is, most second graders don’t have the patience or maturity to try to understand him. I wish the world were different, and I hope one day it will be. But right now — this is our reality. And it’s my job to help him know just how perfect and special he is, while also making sure Boy2 learns to model the kindness and respect his brother deserves. Not because Boy2 is his brother’s keeper, but because he’s a leader. That’s non-negotiable.

As I stood on the sidelines, I watched Boy2 with his friends. He played effortlessly, laughing and connecting, exactly the way you hope your child will. I smiled — grateful I don’t have to worry about him finding friends, at least not for now.

Then I spotted Boy1.

He was on a different activity rotation from his brother, so they couldn’t be together. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t with a group. I watched as he tried — so hard — to find someone, anyone, to play with. He walked up to kids in his class, to kids he knows from activities outside of school, and each time, he was ignored or pushed away. Literally pushed away. After the third or fourth time, he finally pushed back. And honestly? Good for him.

But gahhhhh. My heart.

When I volunteer at school, I always make a point to smile and wave when I see my boys, but I never interfere. I want them to have their own experiences. But that day… I couldn’t stay silent. Watching Boy1 be rejected again and again broke something in me. I walked over, knelt beside him, and said — loud enough for others to hear — “You don’t have to play with kids who are being mean to you or who don’t want to play with you.” I took his hand, and we walked. We talked. We laughed. And the heartbreaking part? He didn’t even understand that the other kids were being unkind.

Later, I asked him if any kids were mean. He said no. But when I asked if they pushed him, he said yes. When I asked if they made mean faces — I even exaggerated my expression to show him — he said yes. That’s when it hit me: he doesn’t understand what “mean” means. I had to define it for him, piece by piece, to help him understand my question. And it crushed me, because I don’t know how many times I’ve asked that same question in the past and received an answer he thought was right — but wasn’t.

I brought what I witnessed to his teachers’ attention. Because here’s the thing: sometimes I hear about how Boy1 “put his hands on another kid.” But now I wonder… how many of those moments were in response to being pushed first? He has a hard time remembering sequences of events. And since he can’t fully explain what happened, he can’t tell his side of the story.

That afternoon, I left the school feeling gutted. Tears in my eyes. Watching kids dismiss and reject my sweet, trusting boy felt like watching him walk into the world unprotected. But I’m also grateful I was there. Because that day gave me insight — a piece of Boy1 I didn’t have before. A new way to help others connect with him.

At home, Boy1 is safe. He’s understood. He’s accepted. And during summer — at home, at my camp — I sometimes forget how different the outside world can be. I take for granted the love and patience that surround him here.

As we get ready to start a new school year, with a fresh set of teachers and classmates, I’m reminded that every year is a new opportunity. A new group of people who need to be educated — who need to learn how to communicate with, support, and truly see him.

I’m ready. I always will be.