A graduation for 2.

This speech was delivered in June 1990, on the occasion of my three-year-old daughter's '"graduation" from her early intervention program.

It is appropriate that parents walk with their children at this particular graduation. The first reason for this is that our children need us to get wherever it is they're going--they will, for a long time. But over the last three years, we have come to realize that they also are our co-pilots. They have taken us down many roads we didn't expect to travel. They have introduced us to each other. And they have brought us to places in our minds and hearts that we didn't know existed.

The second reason is that we parents are graduating from this program just as surely as our children. Long before the staff began talking about family empowerment, some of us parents were very blunt about why we were here. We came because we needed it. If our children also benefited in some way, well, that was even better. But we were the clients in need of service. We came--in bad weather, with colds, throughout the long summer-- because we needed to.

The lessons we learned here would fill a book, and someday they might. But a few thoughts come to mind immediately. I don't presume to speak for all the families graduating from this program, but I do speak for myself and a number of others whom I feel privileged to call friends.

We learned a lot about love, unconditional love. And acceptance. At first, the diagnosis of a disability seems like a cruel joke. But then the reality sets in. You realize that all the hopes and dreams a parent normally has for a new baby may not come true--the trips to the playground, the Little League games you wanted to coach, the books or plays you wanted your child to enjoy. You realize that he may not attend your alma mater, and she is not going to be the prettiest bride there ever was. The death of these dreams is a very significant loss--it is a pain that never ever goes away--and so your child may not be very easy to love at first.

For months, you nurse your disappointment while caring for a little person who may have mental retardation, who may have blood drawn weekly from the veins of his neck, who may be unable to move from the blanket on which you lay him, or who can't see you clearly or hear your voice. Then something happens. One day, you realize that this little person has shown more patience, more good humor, more even-temperedness, more perseverance and more acceptance of you and his world than you have ever known. That little person smiles at you in his own way and lets you know that he's been waiting for you--waiting until you were ready--and he has a special place in his heart for you.

Then you realize why you have been given this little person. It isn't because you're some kind of saint. He is here to teach you never to take a spoken word for granted or consider a child's step ordinary. He is here to teach you about a strong spirit, acceptance, loyalty and love in the face of difficulty.

The other lesson that jumps out at me when I think of this program was taught by the other parents. I met these parents first in my assigned support group; later, they became my friends. The lesson is to love and not to judge--not to judge another's motives, pain, sincerity or circumstances. I was not judged by these parents, many of whom faced far more difficult situations than I. If I was frustrated by my daughter's delay in walking, or worried about her minor ear operations, or angry at being tied down at home, my friends would listen, understand and sometimes make me laugh. No one ever denied my pain by telling me to just be thankful that she could stand up, or that she didn't need open heart surgery or that at least I had another normal child. For this, I thank you.

I still find it amazing that people with children of such tremendously different levels of ability could share, sympathize, and come away refreshed and encouraged by each other. I find it amazing that parents of children with some of the most severe disabilities in the program would babysit for my children so that I could get away for the weekend. I find it amazing that we could come together to appreciate and celebrate the little and big milestones in our children's lives.

To be sure, there have been some tears--some of our little friends are not even here to share this day--but there have been so many more laughs. So many more days and nights when you came away knowing that you'd be okay, that you could manage, that you weren't the only one in this boat.

I couldn't leave without saying how impressed I have been by the dedication of the staff who work with our children. During the past three years, we have met many professionals and volunteers who have never failed to believe in our children or in us. You are a national treasure, and we thank you.

I would also be remiss if I didn't express appreciation to all the spouses, grandparents and friends who have supported us. It would have been impossible to get our children everywhere they had to go without the people who transported them, baby-sat for our other children and helped in other ways.

Like all graduates, we parents are a little nervous. We came here timid and full of questions. Now we have learned the ropes and have even been bold on several occasions. So now we face a future that is not as simple as our past. To leave early intervention is to acknowledge that our children are getting older and that some of our questions remain unanswered. But I believe that if we remember well the lessons we have learned here, we will learn to live with the questions. And our children will continue to be the wind beneath our wings.

Epilogue 

Last September, my daughter Dana, now six years old, began attending the local elementary school her 10-year-old brother also attends. She is partially mainstreamed in a kindergarten class and rides the regular school bus with other neighborhood youngsters. Dana also participates in Daisy Girl Scouts, religious education and dance classes.

The support I continue to receive from other parents I met through early intervention remains a constant in my life. Although our children have gone their separate ways, our parent support group continues to meet every month or so to exchange information and support each other through the ups and downs of our children's lives.

Another thing that doesn't change after early intervention is the need for parents to continue to learn not only about their own children's disability, but also about the educational system, inclusion and other issues. Monitoring your child's education can be so overwhelming, but it's absolutely necessary.

The third thing that doesn't change is that parents are still their children's primary teachers. This is true even though their children may spend the majority of their day someplace else with experts. Parents of children without disabilities impart their values and learning to their children through everyday activities--reading, shopping trips and household chores. We must do the same for our children with disabilities. This is critical in developing our children's self-esteem and making them feel like an integral part of the family.

Teresa M. Rafferty is the mother of six-year-old Dana, and ten-year-old Devin. She is a freelance health care writer and president of the PTA at the elementary school her two children attend. Her husband, Tom, is employed by the State of New Jersey as an administrator for Medicaid.