PRETTY PAPER AND THE PERFECT CHILD

Most people posting on social media want to project a perfect life with pretty pictures of smiling faces. Those pictures always remind me of the Willie Nelson song, "Pretty Paper"––

"Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue

Wrap your presents to your darling from you

Pretty pencils to write "I love you."

Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue

Crowded street, busy feet hustle by him

Downtown shoppers, Christmas is nigh

There he sits all alone on the sidewalk

Hoping that you won't pass him by

Should you stop, better not

You're in a hurry, my how time does fly

In the distance, the ringing of laughter

And in the midst of laughter, he cries"

Of course, we all know that what we're trying to project often hides what's happening just past the camera lens. None of us get out of this life without experiencing bumps in the road, whether self-imposed or done to us. It would be too depressing to only post the negative aspects of our lives, and no one wants to see that, but constant pictures of a happy life aren't realistic. I worry about the people who see post after post of smiling faces and experience even deeper depression because they think everyone else is happy while suffering.

Many of my posts contain beautiful images of my family, travel, and hikes. I also post stories about unpleasant subjects or viewpoints others probably don't share. Nevertheless, I've always lived by the quote, "To thine own self be true." I bring others along with me on my journey––the good, the bad, and the ugly. Mostly, it's all good. Thank God.

I was shocked when I realized that everyone didn't adore my child. Reality smacked me right in the face when I picked up my 2-year-old daughter at the babysitter's house who lived down the road. This woman seemed warm and optimistic and loved the three children in her care, including her three-year-old son. She professed to be a Christian. I naively believed her.

Marcy stayed at her house during the day for about a year while I worked. When I bent down to pick her up in the living room of the woman's house one afternoon, I noticed a perfectly shaped red handprint on my daughter's leg. This wasn't a mere tap. I was speechless. The woman quickly explained that my daughter had bitten her son. I was distraught and couldn't get out of there fast enough. I cried all the way home. How could anyone do this to my perfect, adorable daughter?

The next day, I enrolled my daughter in preschool at First Baptist Church. I never darkened the door of that woman's house again and considered reporting her to Child Protective Services. She was incredulous that I would no longer use her services. She wasn't given the gift of insight.

Recently, my two-year-old grandson's Pediatrician recommended speech therapy because he seemed behind in his expressive language. I kept denying anything could be wrong because his perfect face, reminiscent of his mother at that age, was beyond the physical. You melt to see the joy spread across his face while he's laughing, smiling, or playing. And sometimes, when he's run out of steam, you're rewarded with the exquisite gift of cuddling.

My daughter asked me to be present at his speech evaluation. Patrick wasn't having any of it and did everything during the session but cooperate. He definitely has a mind of his own and isn't easily directed. It suddenly occurred to me that he might be labeled "developmentally disabled," "mentally retarded" "autistic," or "attention deficit hyperactivity disorder." I felt tears filling behind my eyelids. Simultaneously, I realized that whatever label he was given, we would face it and continue to love him with every fiber of our being.

Treatment can begin when issues with children are identified early, and the outcome is much better. Our children are so much more than a diagnosis or a label. They are literally our hearts.

He's still in speech therapy and making progress. The evaluation revealed that his expressive language is delayed moderately, while his receptive language is slightly behind. However, the behavior could undoubtedly play a part in the delays that have been identified. One of my friends, an expert in childhood development, explained that expressive language is a motor function. Walking doesn't coincide for all children, neither does their speech.

His therapist has now recommended a developmental Pediatrician to rule out any physical problems, such as hearing. God knows his maternal Grandmother misses about 80% of the spoken word. I've always figured it was due to significant hearing loss, but let's face it, some of that could be my aging brain.

I'm not worried. Children progress at different speeds. He'll talk when he's good and ready. And––whatever the outcome, it doesn't change the fact that this precious boy is dearly loved.

Besides, he'll always be perfect to me––"Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue."