How To Authentically Introduce Your Atypical Child To Typical Peers

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My friend sent my daughter an invite to her kids’ birthday party. She knows Avery doesn’t get invited to many parties, so she included her understanding how much it would mean. When Avery got the invitation she opened it slowly and expectantly, peeling back the envelope like Charlie unwrapping the foil of that last bar of chocolate, hoping to find a golden ticket. News of a party was a golden ticket to her. She circled the date on the puppy calendar in her room and literally counted down the days with red sharpie Xs. She told everyone at school/at the grocery store/in her dance class/anybody within earshot, that she was going to a party. 

When the big day came, we arrived at my friend’s house on our way home from dance class. The party was in full swing. Avery bounded in and said, with great enthusiasm, “I’m here!!” I could already see the confusion spreading across the new kids’ faces. Friends who know Avery understand she’s different. They don’t care. I wonder if they even notice anymore? They love and accept her and are so patient when she can’t find the words. I get that people who have never met Avery struggle to figure her out.

My child doesn’t have any recognizable physical traits to immediately identify her as disabled. So when she speaks to you with a speech pattern of a much younger child, it can be confusing. And when she touches you or hugs you or stands too close, it might come across as an invasion of your personal space. She’s also petite which might lead you to believe she’s younger than she is.
I understand that when you meet my daughter for the first time, you might have questions. 

I know it, but I’m not always emotionally prepared for it. When one of the little girls at the party took a pronounced step back from Avery who was trying to get a closer look at the sparkles on her pretty party dress, I stepped in. I can’t help it sometimes. To put newbies at ease I smooth things over by starting a conversation. So I’ll say, “That’s really a pretty dress isn’t it Avery? You have a sparkly dress like that too, don’t you?” And then I’ll engage the friend in conversation and find some common ground by saying something like, “Where did you get your dress? It’s really pretty. Avery’s favourite colour is purple too.” Annnnnnnnd, discuss. 

I know my child can speak for herself. In fact, despite her speech disorder, she’s quite a chatterbox. I also know she doesn’t always need me to facilitate. But sometimes the other kid — the uncomfortable one — needs a little help. 

When the partiers gathered around the table to await the birthday cake, there weren’t enough chairs, so some kids shared seats. I asked one of the girls to scootch over so Avery could sit beside her. The girl obliged but when I turned my back, she jumped up and moved two seats over. Apparently she was more comfortable squishing three to a seat than sitting beside Avery. Oof. I still feel the sucker punch to my mom gut.  

One of the boys at the table was whispering, loudly, the way kids do. The girl beside him said, “She said she was nine but she can’t be.” He whispered back, “What grade do you think she’s in?” 

“WHY DON’T YOU JUST ASK HER WHAT GRADE SHE’S IN? SHE’S SITTING RIGHT THERE!” I snapped with a sharp edge to my voice. 

The boy looked surprised by my outburst, but he only shrugged and then asked her, “So, what grade are you in?” 

“I in grade four. My brother is grade seven,” she answered smiling. (Her brother wasn’t at the party, but she always includes him anyway.)

My friend knew something was up when I turned down a slice of ice-cream cake. 

When I told her what happened she scowled in Avery’s defence. But Avery was fine, happily sporting a chocolate ice-cream moustache, totally oblivious. She generally doesn’t notice when people are speaking negatively about her. But knowing her, if she did, she wouldn’t let it bother her. She marches to the beat of her own drummer and could give two craps what you think of her. I wish I was like that. 

After years of parenting a disabled kid, I’ve gotten into a groove. But at this party, I was off my game. 

NORMALLY in a situation like this, as the kids took their seats, I would have casually leaned in and laid a blanket statement over the table like a prophylactic tablecloth. I’d have said something like, “Hey kids. This is M and J’s (the party hosts) friend Avery. Some of you might not know her. Just so you’re aware, she has a bit of trouble with her speech, so if you have a problem understanding her, just ask me and I can help. She’s nine and she’s in grade four at XYZ Public School. Avery and I just came from her dance class. Anyone else take dance?” (or some other crowd specific conversation starter).

Usually this starts the kids talking and including my daughter in the conversation. But mostly, it preemptively answers kids’ questions and puts them at ease. And, it gives them permission to respectively ask questions. 

This doesn’t make Avery uncomfortable. I suspect that might not be the case for some kids. Many kids don’t want to be centred out in this way. Avery, I can assure you, loves being the centre of attention. You have no idea. LOL!

However, I didn’t employ this tactic. Instead of advocating for my child properly by using a tried and true method, I let the chips (there’s a lot of party food imagery here and it’s making me peckish) fall where they may and when the children were confused and stand-offish, reacting as children do, I responded emotionally. 

My mistake, but I refuse to beat myself up. I prefer to look at it as a good reminder of how to be more consistent in my role as an advocate for my child.

The rest of the party was lovely. Avery played and partied and had loads of fun. She always does. 

My friend apologized to me for “the incident,” but she obviously had nothing to be sorry for. Even the kids who distanced themselves from my child didn’t need to apologize. We all try to figure each other out. When we come across somebody new who doesn’t fit into our scope of understanding, we may have questions. Kids, who are not the most tactful (though adults can often be much worse) can stumble. And when they do, it’s my job as my daughter’s mum, to step in to help. 

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