This morning my 6 year old daughter had her winter holiday concert at school.  My daughter, A, attends the same lower elementary school that R goes to.  The school goes from preschool through first grade, and A is in first grade, while R is a preschooler.  As I watched my daughter sing along with all the first graders before the rows of proud parents, a wave of sadness swept over me.  I don’t often feel sad about R.  But sometimes a sadness hits me, taking me unprepared, like this time.  The mother beside me had brought her toddler, perhaps 18 months old.  He was dancing to the music, pointing at the children, and trying to sing along.  It was unexpectedly painful seeing the one year old like that, doing things R can’t yet do, seeing my daughter having fun on stage and wondering if R will be able to do that in two years, when he’s her age.  I don’t normally allow myself to get caught up in the comparison trap.  In the beginning it hurt all the time seeing other children R’s age or younger doing so many things that were worlds away for him.  But over time I learned to focus on R exactly where he’s at, versus where other children are at, and to anchor myself in the present.  Yet sometimes it sneaks up on me.  Rationally I don’t think I need to be sad.  R is generally a very happy little boy.  If he doesn’t feel he’s missing out on things why should I?  But there is something inside that is sometimes quietly sad, just for a moment.  Always though, the sheer joy of R pulls me free of that sadness in a mighty, inescapable way.  This time was no different.  Just as that sadness had settled over me uninvited, as I felt the hot pressure of unwelcome tears held back, I heard his little voice.  In a crowded auditorium with over a hundred singing first graders and accompanying music on the loudspeaker I heard R’s voice raised in joyful stimmy chants.  A voice I would recognize anywhere.  At first I thought I must have imagined it, but then it came again and I turned my head to the sound, scanning rapidly for him.  I spotted him then, at the railing on the ledge overlooking the auditorium, held snugly in the arms of his morning aide.  His aide caught my eye and smiled and made her way with R closer to me.  I went to stand with them, said hello to R and gave him a kiss.  He was grinning and happily making his sweet noises.  His aide told me she wanted to show him his sister singing at the concert.  They stayed a few minutes, then, as R was growing restless, she took him back to his classroom.  Seeing that bright, happy little face, hearing R’s voice, it made my day and vanished the sadness utterly.

I found myself suddenly profoundly grateful.  R’s school feels like a family.  The fact that his aide thought to take him to watch his sister sing for a few minutes speaks to that.  They also take R on little trips to the main office and the nurse’s office just to visit with the staff there.  Another time they pulled A out of class to come outside and push R on the swing for a few minutes.  It’s so many little things, but what it adds up to is feeling like family.  And today that family gave me the reminder I needed.  There is nothing sad about today.  Today is a good day.