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Daughter enables kids, and mom

 

My daughter's high school requires 160 hours of volunteer service for graduation. At the end of her junior year, Katy had 15 hours.

What to do for the ominous 145? Like other seniors with remaining time, she could sign up for classroom helper or office assistant at school. "Bor-ing," she moaned.

Then her dad suggested, "Why not explore your latest career interest?" Katy had recently reported she wanted to be a psychologist and work with handicapped kids.

Before that, she wanted to train monkeys. So John and I figured the current idea would transform into something new by next year. Especially since child care is low on Katy's interest list, let alone kids with major problems. A volunteer job with special children would be a perfect opportunity for Katy to try out this career possibility, and gain service credit for school. She agreed.

John pointed her toward the UW Experimental Education Unit, where she interviewed, and was invited to work in the summer program. Four weeks among a dozen 4-6 year-olds with autism, Down's syndrome, or some other disability.

In this environment, Katy would surely discover whether the career she imagined for herself was a good match, before she committed to it in college. Excellent idea, we thought, wondering what direction she'd travel next.

When Katy left for work that first morning, I wished her well and bit my lip. I would never survive the first day. I'm the one who chose college teaching because there are fewer behavior problems and tricky learning styles. I admired Katy for even attempting to tackle those issues, multiplied by extreme mental and physical challenges.

When Katy returned that first evening, I expected to see a 17-year-old refugee from Chaos. But she was smiling. "It was great, Mom. There's this little boy who's so cute. I want to bring him home."

I took a longer, deeper look at my daughter that night, and wondered what else about her I don't know yet.

The first week passed, and Katy still loved it. Every day she came home with clever ideas for handling little people, and tried them out on her sister. When Anna refused to say Thank you, Katy reacted, "When people give me things, I say Thank you, because that's how to get more nice things to hap --"

"Thank you!"

And I smiled Thank you, too.

Then one day, Katy said to me, "Will you come and watch?"

I stood frozen between fear and loyalty.

"There's a little room with a special window so you can see everything. Please?"

A few days later, I drove to the school, entered the observation room, and watched fifteen children interacting with five adults. The scene was enchanting. Riveting. I expected bedlam, and found peace. I watched teachers engage little jack-in-the-box children in playful, personal learning. I saw artful interceptions of colliding bodies, and subtle distractions for those with emotional overload. I observed a classroom in slow motion. Every adult action was careful and soothing, and the kids mellowed in its graceful tempo.

I can't say that I picked up the phone the next day and offered to work there beside Katy. But, I did face my pre-conceived notion -- my prejudice -- about mental and physical disabilities. Now I see the kids aren't as disabled by their handicaps as much as we are, when we assume they cannot succeed. With teachers like those at UW's experimental school, and volunteers like Katy, any kids can thrive.

In the end, John and I were wrong about Katy. Delightfully wrong. Working with disabled kids is a fine match for her. "She's a natural," the principal remarked, and Katy wants to return next summer.

In fact, our daughter was so successful, they paid her for the second half. Well, that's great. But scratch two full-time weeks from Katy's volunteer sheet at school. Now she has 95 hours to work off before graduation. Next idea?

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