August 28, 1998
Dear Eric:
Today, as you begin kindergarten, I'm writing you a letter.
It's a tradition I began with your sister, Jenna, seven years ago.
The first day of school is a fall rite of passage, like brilliantly changing leaves, crisp evening air and earlier bedtimes. For a family with children of special needs, the first day of school also represents hard-won success.
Some professionals believed the physical challenges of cerebral palsy would prevent you from learning in a regular school environment. Armed with cold, hard statistics, they warned that learning with disabilities might mean a life of segregation. But as special parents, we don't bank on statistics. We invest in the human stuff, like love, faith and hard work.
We chose a different road.
From the moment you first dramatically graced our lives, we've focused on your ability. In turn, you have exhibited a spirit of survival that astounds me. We've endured too many moments of grief and ignorance to let learning with disabilities become a roadblock. What I remember most is your first smile and giggle, your first word and your success at a regular preschool.
You are a wise and handsome child, with inquisitive brown eyes that miss nothing. Much of your ability to positively impact others has come from their first impressions of you as a cute child. Your long and lanky frame holds just 30 hard-won pounds, but you are far from being a lightweight in this life.
There have been critical hospital stays, invasive procedures and moments when your life was in peril. But today, we celebrate school and a powerful lesson in letting go.
Today, our family is no different.
In your back-to-school outfit of Gap overalls, white Mickey Mouse T-shirt and black Oshkosh shoes, you charm me. But there will be challenges.
The ground we tread is fresh, presenting a challenge to those uncomfortable with inclusion, a word promising equal educational opportunities for all children. Some people won't understand our fight and won't want to. Yet other educators will also teach from their hearts.
This will be a year of new challenges. When people assume physical challenges include mental impairment, you'll be the first to forgive. I pray that others in this new world take time to discover how gifted and talented you really are.
I want to meet the new friends who look past your wheelchair and into your eyes-and into your soul. I eagerly await book fairs, walking down school hallways and making red finger Jell-O at Christmas.
As your special bus disappears from sight, I'm a wreck. In a rare moment, I doubt. Are you ready? Am I ready? Your bus is equipped for wheelchairs and separates you from your able-bodied classmates. Someday, that too must change.
You grin at me through the tinted bus window. You are more ready than I am.
As the bright, yellow school bus disappears from sight, as it did with Jenna many memories ago, I'm overcome with emotion. Safely inside, I release the tears of too many moments with those who are blind to your value. But my tears of frustration and anger give way to unconditional love for the child who has been my greatest life teacher.
As you begin this new journey, son, you must grow in independence. But Dad and I will be beside you to champion the dreams that others try to tarnish. Forgive them.
On this exceptional day, words can only begin to express what I feel in my heart, Eric Richard Winter. Thank you for coming into my life and teaching me more than I ever thought I had to learn.
With much love,
Mom
P.S. Have a wonderful first day in kindergarten!!
Judy Winter is a mother and award-winning freelance writer.