Unjaded

I had a chance to step into my old role at work last Friday, working one-on-one with a little guy at a preschool. Well, sorta one-on-one. While he has limited mobility in his legs, and a bit in his hands, he is cognitively typically developing; a smart, confident young man. I was mostly just there to ensure driver safety with his walker.

He wanted to jump on the mini-trampoline at centre time. He bounces independently on his knees, a mix of straight up-and-down bounces with the occasional horse kick thrown in for good measure.

As I supervise just off to the side, we engage in conversation: about his full-size trampoline at home, about his older brother who tries to hog trampoline time, about how this little bouncer is harder on his knees than he's used to. 

It is quiet for a minute.

Then he comments, "sometimes people watch; they look at me a lot."

In an instant, my brain imagines all the scenarios where this little guy moves around on his knees, or in his walker, while the world around him moves unassisted on two feet. Expecting to hear him parrot whatever his parents have taught him thus far about how to respond to gawkers--and preparing myself to enter into a brief conversation about how it makes him feel when people act that way--I respond open-endedly with, "oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. It's cuz I can bounce so high."

Because the conversation was never about his disability to begin with.