parenting with disability

The Last Time

Posted on by Wendy Kennar
My son helped me out by editing this photo. For privacy reasons, the teacher's name has been blurred.

Somewhere, I once read about a sneaky fact of parenting; the one you didn’t realize happened, until after it happened — the phenomenon known as “The Last Time.”

For instance, the last time I held my son’s hand as we crossed the street.

Or, the last time I helped my son wiggle his feet into his socks and shoes. 

Just a few days ago, there was a last time. Though this “last time” was different because I knew it was coming. More than that, I looked forward to it. 

Last Thursday evening was the last time I will attend a Back-to-School Night. 

As a former teacher and parent, I always appreciated a parent’s attendance at school functions. At the same time, I completely understand why parents can’t always attend these important school events. (In fact, when I was teaching, if a parent missed Back-to-School Night and/or Open House, I always saved any handouts I distributed that evening, and the following day I sent them home with the student whose parents weren’t in attendance.)

So even though my son is a senior and is a strong student and there were no concerns we needed to discuss with his teachers, last Thursday evening, my husband and I attended Back-to-School Night and met seven of my son’s eight teachers. (One was absent.) We briefly chatted with each teacher and thanked them for all they do. In many instances, we were the only parents in the room. 

But oh-my-goodness I am so relieved I won’t have to do that again. Because at my son’s high school, parents follow a very strict schedule during Back-to-School Night. We spend ten minutes in each classroom and have only five minutes to get from one classroom to another. 

This means we went to our son’s first period class for ten minutes (4:00 pm – 4:10 pm) and then had only five minutes to get to my son’s second period class — located on the second floor in a different building. Now, I know I’m not going to get penalized for not being in class before the bell rings. (And yes, bells ring throughout Back-to-School Night.) But I consider it a courtesy and obligation for me to try, as hard as I can, not to be late. (You can imagine our frustration when we made it to our son’s second period class, a minute late, and found a note on the door stating the teacher’s absence.)

Which is a long-winded way of saying our son’s high school operates on an ableist mentality when it comes to Back-to-School Night. Parents are expected to be physically able to navigate the stairs, both inside and outside the buildings. 

For those who don’t know, school elevators are not easily accessible. You don’t just push the up button like you do in an office building. School elevators require a key to operate, which means you have to get in touch with a school staff member who has the key. (Only a select few have the coveted elevator key. I did have an elevator key the last few years of my teaching career.)

Remember, Back-to-School Night operates on a very tight timetable. There is no extra time built in for navigating the elevator situation. Plus, I never wanted to be a distraction, or make more work for anyone else — things I think about, things I know logically aren’t true, but they feel true to me. I wanted Back-to-School Night to be about my son and his experiences in school, not on my weak left leg and my bad knees and my invisible disability. 

Plus, I always feared someone would accuse me of not really needing an elevator. Let’s face it, I don’t look like I “need” an elevator. How best do I explain my invisible-to-others physical limitations?

Now, all that’s behind me. I made it to the finish line — The Last Time I Attended My Son’s Back to School Night. 

Accessing Parenthood

Posted on by Wendy Kennar

In 2019, I wrote a personal essay titled, “Paying the Price,” and submitted it to the Pen 2 Paper writing contest, a “disability-focused creative writing contest.” That year, in addition to submitting in the Nonfiction category, I also submitted my essay to the Oleb Books Personal Essay category, meaning my essay, if chosen, would be included in an Oleb Books Anthology about parenting and disability. 

Five years later, I am so proud to share my essay, “Growing Up with Me and My Invisible Disability,” has been included in the recently published anthology, Accessing Parenthood: Stories By and About Parents with Disabilities.

During the last five years, my essay has been slightly edited and re-titled. (I admit — titles are not my strength. The editors politely informed me I needed a different title, one that would “add some pizazz that will pull readers in and make them curious enough to read on.”)

A few details are no longer accurate — namely the ages mentioned and the fact that our Los Angeles Clippers now play at Intuit Dome. 

But the emotions and the lessons learned haven’t changed.

Here are just a few passages from my personal essay:

“If I agreed, made the plans, and went horseback riding, would I be demonstrating the valuable life skills of perseverance and resiliency? Was my let’s-do-it attitude fortitude or stubbornness or stupidity? Was my go-getter-ness a refusal to submit to my disease or a life-affirming decision to go out and do things that might seem scary, hard, and uncomfortable?
“I didn’t know.
“I did know I wanted Ryan to grow up believing in himself and believing in the value of trying new things. Many things — food, music, places, experiences. Because they’re new and different. Because he’s curious. Because he wants to find out for himself. 
“I wanted Ryan to grow up living his life.”

“Through my actions and my words, I am trying to teach Ryan the broader definitions of strength, perseverance, and bravery. And along those lines, I’m trying to teach by example broader definitions for disability, pain, and handicap.”

“Maybe I hadn’t planned on being a mother with an inivisible disability, but it doesn’t change the way I love my son. Maybe I am teaching my son lessons I hadn’t expected to teach him. Maybe Ryan’s levels of patience, empathy, and sensitivity have grown exponentially while he’s growing up with me and my invisible disability.”

You can find out more about this unique collection by clicking here. 

Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.

Lessons Learned

Posted on by Wendy Kennar

“Now, my bandaged leg was tender and sore, and walking was more like a slow, laborious shuffle.

‘I know it’s hard now, but it will get better. This will pass,’ Ryan said. His tone was soft. Soothing.

I bit my lip, took a breath, and smiled.

Those were all the same words I have spoken to Ryan each time he’s been sick. Reminders that he’s not alone. Reminders that I’ll see him through it. Reminders that the discomfort (whether it was a high fever, a bout of vomiting, or a hard coughing) would pass and wouldn’t last forever.”

The passage above is taken from my personal essay, “Lessons Learned,” a reminder that our children are always watching, always listening, always learning from the adults in their lives. I’m proud to say my essay was recently published at MUTHA Magazine. Click here to read the essay in its entirety.