The other afternoon, my son and I played hopscotch.
That was after we had played handball.
There are a few details that make those statements more meaningful than they may initially appear.
First off, in our neighborhood, we don’t see many parents outside playing with their kids.Where we live, kids are left to wander on their own.Most of the families near us are not only-child families like ours so often times siblings play together, or neighboring kids play together.But the other day, we were the only ones outside enjoying the sunshine so I was my son’s playmate.
Secondly, neither hopscotch or handball are easy sports for me to play.Me, the woman with an autoimmune disease, the woman who qualifies for a disabled placard, the woman who experiences pain in her legs (primarily the left leg).
But my son wanted to play.And I wanted to play with him.So I did, until I just couldn’t.Until I was balancing on one foot, bending down to pick up the rock from the hopscotch square, and pain began to shoot up and down my leg a bit.Then I had to sit the rest of the game out, and cheer on my son while he played alone.
That part hasn’t gotten any easier for me — knowing when to stop and knowing when to say “I can’t do this any more.”Because I do want to play with my son, and because I realize how special it is that my ten-year-old still wants to play with me.
Our afternoon playtime session got me thinking about a personal essay I wrote a few years back that was published at muthamagazine.com.Click here to read, “The ‘A’ Word: Parenting with an Invisible Disability.”
When you first look at the picture above, all you see is a lush, green hanging plant.But if you looked inside, if you looked down at the soil that is hidden by the leaves, you’d find more than a plant.You’d find a bird sitting on her nest.And in that nest, if the bird flew away, you might get lucky to spot the baby birds in there.
A week or so ago, we discovered the nest when I was watering our plants.I accidentally startled the mama bird, and after she flew away, I saw four small eggs tucked into the nest.
Those eggs have hatched, and now this plant on our back patio is home to a bird family.
Yet when you first walk by, all you see is this plant.“Our” bird family is hidden.Just like my autoimmune disease.
It’s funny how the mind works, but discovering this nest, listening to “Tweet Tweet” (my son’s name for the mama bird), has got me thinking about a piece I wrote for MUTHA Magazine. Click here to read my personal essay, “Can Acknowledging My Weakness Actually Be a Sign of Strength?”
My ten-year-old son enjoys reading the “Who? What? Where?” Series.If you’re not familiar with these non-fiction books, they are biographies of famous people (both historical and contemporary figures) as well as books about well-known places and significant events.
On the back cover of each book, is a series of questions related to the book’s subject.This week, I thought I’d borrow that format to share a few things about me:
Who Is Wendy Kennar?
— A little girl who always liked to wear plastic jewelry around the house and pretend she was a movie star.
— A college student who didn’t have a car for half her college years and relied on six buses a day to commute to and from California State University Northridge.
— A mother with an invisible disability.
** All of the above
It’s all true.And you can click here to read my personal essay “Parenting With an Invisible Disability” at MomsLA.com.
I gained a reputation after teaching for a number of years.I was kind.Organized.Structured.Calm.Patient.Loving.
And even though I’m no longer teaching, those adjectives still apply.
But there’s another side of me.The side that is sometimes so frustrated, so beaten-down that I feel like channeling Bill Murray’s character in What About Bob? and letting out a long tirade of curse words.And while I don’t let myself go to that extreme, it still isn’t easy to deal with daily pain and stay calm.
Instead, I write about it.
Click here to be re-directed to The Mighty to read my latest personal essay, “The Words I Use to Describe Life With an Autoimmune Disease.”