Empathy

Here comes the snow again. 10 inches or more predicted today. Daddy went to church to sing Kum-ba-ya (again) while you and I stayed at home and constructed a pile of snotty tissues between us.

On the way to Blue Monday I had to stop for a train that was visible only when I was half a block away. No whistle, no rattling of the tracks, just the blinking red lights and this dark blur moving left to right behind a veil of white.

You don't have much of an appetite because of the cold and when I change your diaper your belly is noticeably flatter. The gray sweatpants I tried to dress you in were too wide around the waist, kept slipping down when you walked.

You love to stand on the couch and grab items from the bookshelf that rests against the back of the couch: cell phone, necklace, wipes, water glass, mail key, brochures--general detritus. While Daddy took Luxy out in the snow, you and I examined the coupons from the Sunday paper. You were pleased by the pictures of grapes and oranges and apples, by the cartoon of the smiling dog and the photo of the monkey dressed in a green scarf and frog slippers.

Yesterday we spent 20 minutes looking at pictures in the Atlantic Monthly together. When we got to the advertisement for a fund that helps children with cleft palette, I wasn't sure what to do. Three photos of children with horribly disfigured faces. The lip of one rising up like the crest of a wave, the front teeth of another adhered squarely to the bottom of his nose. I wanted to turn the page but didn't. You pointed to the places of disfigurement, you knew immediately something was wrong. I said "ouch, those kids are hurt, they have ouchies on their faces." But I let you look. I'm not sure this was the right thing to do. I'm not sure at which point we should let you begin to witness the brutality, the unfairness, the darkness of the world. Those decisions won't entirely be up to us, of course, but sometimes we will be faced with the question of how much to let you witness.

I also know that many disabilities are no longer considered dis-abilities. Instead, many people who look or walk or think differently than the status quo want to be understood as "differently abled." A wine stain on the face is not an "ouch"--it's a cool and interesting difference--but what about these children, in the magazine, the ones who can't talk or eat well because of their contorted mouths? When is difference a lesson in empathy and when is difference a lesson in "we are all unique and beautiful creatures--hurrah!"?

I know this seems small but I saw the way you looked at the children in the magazine and then looked at my face to see how you should respond.