I have a handbag I love. It's a warm mustard yellow. Yes, yellow. I eyed it for days before God answered my silent prayers and it went on a sale. Half-price, at that! I used it sparingly and lovingly. And proudly. It made me happy, as only handbags or shoes ever can. Then one day, I took it along to catch up with good old friends, not to show it off, but like I said, because it made me happy, and because it was a yellow kind of day. "Since when do you carry around bags coloured like poo?", asked a friend, kindly, evoking peals of laughter in total agreement from the others. It felt like an insult like no other. In that one mortifying moment, I forgot how much I loved that 'poo coloured' handbag, how much I had waited to own it. All that mattered was that I being laughed at. I mumbled some feeble retort not worthy of memory, but I had already started the process of distancing myself from it. It was banished to the deep recesses of my cupboard, never to see the light of day again. I felt guilty not standing up for my choice, my beloved bag. But I felt the compulsion to conform. Once again.
Today I am a mother. I 'own' a little person. He is mine, and though I did not specify exactly what kind of child I wanted, I would have him no different. I admit that as he grows, there are things about him I initially don't identify with or understand, much less appreciate. Every child is different and all that blah, but in the face of 'normal' kids, behaving as they are wont to, as people expect them to, or as people believe is on the 'right' path, such resolve often cracks. I am discovering now how much strength it takes (and to some it comes naturally) to throw people's opinions calmly back into their face. And how vital it is for little kids to be protected from standards of 'normalcy'.
R is talking late. Taking his time, but picking up with help. Six months ago, I was despondent. Was he developmentally delayed? Was he ever going to catch up? How were we going to deal with it? More importantly, what was I going to do about it? The guy never got frustrated with my efforts to 'improve' him. Resilient creatures, kids. Thank God for that. We work hard on things he was/is struggling with, and I can only laud his efforts. But while doing so, I learned where he really needed help, and where I was just assuming he did. Things he was doing just because he was being himself. Or because he loved doing them. Not because of a disorder, or a delay, or some shortcoming. Much like the way Phoebe from Friends runs - because it makes her happy. People be damned.
So, he doesn't want to play with certain kids. He loves sitting with old people at the park. Some days he wants to take caps off bottles and whistles off cookers, and some days he will eat only blue and purple Gems. He prefers books to balls and will sit with kitchen equipment like he was born for it. Play-Doh is only for making snakes and rotis. He'll shout out his grandmother's name on constant replay to show love. And he adores a little skull-shaped rubber which I detest. He has many such cute, eccentric, ever-changing (even maddening) likes and dislikes that he is not sorry for, which make him stand out. Almost like he's snubbing the world - 'We are like this only'. It makes me proud that he is not like me. I hope, in this regard, he never is.
Years after I let go of my yellow bag, never forgetting it, my fashion-aware sister-in-law gifted me a small sling bag. She said she loved it on sight and thought of me first. I hope you like it, she said. I'd like you to use it. I do love it and use it. It's yellow. Mustard yellow.
Thank you R, for showing me how to enjoy my yellow bag.
