This is the first time I’ve re-blogged anything; not due to any shortage wonderful entries worth re-blogging, there are loads of them, but because I know me–once I’ve started, I’ll want to do it ALL THE TIME. I’ll set some boundaries for myself later, but for now, enjoy my first re-blogged post. It’s about a lesson we all have to learn when we become parents; more so, perhaps, when we parent children who are not neurotypical; and also, it’s a lesson each one of us has to learn to apply across society, with regards to any people who are not like “me”.
It’s Saturday morning. Boston Ballet is holding auditions for the Nutcracker. Hopeful little ballerinas gather, line up, and are shepherded in various directions to go do whatever it is that they do.
They are color coded, as it were. The littlest in light pink leotards, the slightly older girls in pale blue. All of them have their hair drawn back into the ballerina’s signature: a high, tight bun. Given the number of children milling about, the place is startlingly quiet. There is a delicacy, a gentility to the whole affair.
Brooke is in the studio with Mr Gino. Her adaptive dance class stands in stark contrast to the quiet constraint of the children outside. As Mr. Ryan sits at his drum set pounding out a rhythm, one of Brooke’s classmates makes her way across the room, every single part of her body abandoned to the beat. She bucks and runs…
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