By Lisa Shields
After a child is born, parents focus on the “milestones:” Sitting up. Crawling. First Words. Walking.
For parents of kids with disabilities, milestones hold their luster. We become less interested in the “time line” than we are in the actual achievement. Our children’s firsts are never taken for granted, and we celebrate them at times with gusto. My daughter was ten when she was classified and along with the baffling new language we all learned, came a new understanding about what milestones could mean.
Desi has a “hidden disability” because she seems just like anyone else, but eventually, her disability does show up. When Desi was in fourth grade, the district seemed unable—or unwilling—to address it. We found out what was different about her, but the child study team dismissed her as “one of those kids.” Our argument—that she was bright and capable of much more than they expected—was dismissed as “denial.” For years I had been warned about the “stigma” of special education, but the system was failing my child, so we accepted the classification, and found an out-of-district placement that could meet her needs.
Desi blossomed in her new school. There is no other way to put it. Inside of a few weeks, she was gaining on some of her educational deficits, and in six months, she had completely caught up on three years of learning. The teachers encouraged her, and everything she achieved gave her greater confidence. She graduated the 8th grade “on schedule”—a bonus no one expected—and proceeded to tear through high school with a 4.0 average. She scored beautifully on standardized tests and was inducted into the National Honor Society in her senior year.
That same year, Desi turned 17. Everyone expected her to get her driver’s license. She had taken courses behind the wheel. She had her permit. But, she wasn’t ready—something that became a huge issue with family and friends. I knew, in time, it would come. If Mom’s Taxi had to keep rolling for a few more years, so be it.
Desi went to a local college—a campus 10 miles away, with NO buses connecting us. She made the Dean’s List, and discovered a real passion for writing, but she still didn’t drive. Family and friends got upset that I was the one doing the driving, but like other milestones; I knew that she might not follow “the schedule.”
In truth, I didn’t mind driving Desi. She and I often talked, shared music—driving was social time for us, not a grueling task. I didn’t push her to drive because I knew that she put enough pressure on herself. She was her own worst critic and a harsh taskmaster.
When Desi announced that she was getting her license, we did some practice runs, but honestly, I was skeptical. I know my daughter and I know her ability to deliver can be amazing, but driving? That was major.
Even “high functioning kids” have a comfort zone, and like anyone else, they don’t like stepping out of it. Desi took driving seriously; her number one concern was that she might make a mistake, and hurt someone. Other kids equate driving with freedom – Desi considered it a big responsibility.
I watched part of her test. I knew she could handle the basic driving. But parking? Yikes. I couldn’t watch. I waited for her to return, planning my speech: “Don’t worry honey. You’ll get it next time.” And then they drove up, and the DMV man said: “She passed!” Jumping JIMINY!
She was happy and excited. And I felt a whole lot of things, many of them unexpected. Proud? Yes! But also a little worried. And a little sad. A driver’s license is freedom. In a very emphatic way, my girl no longer needed me to get her to where she wanted to go. She could get there herself. And for the parents of kids with a disability, that’s the gold standard. It doesn’t get any better. We drove home singing along with her “victory mix,” music she plays to celebrate her successes, ranging from “Go the Distance,” to the Carmina Burana.
That day I cried. Happy tears mixed with the same ones I shed on the first day of kindergarten, when a plucky little girl walked up to her teacher, took her hand, and walked into the school, not looking back once. I was proud but with this tiny voice thinking: “Not yet!”
But now is the time. She’s ready, so I have to be, too. Desi has hundreds of milestones ahead of her, and I know I will not be there for every one anymore. She has truly arrived. And the best part? She drove HERSELF.
“For parents of kids with disabilities, milestones hold their luster”
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