Included

Yesterday was a monumental day, for three reasons: 1) It was our sixth wedding anniversary; 2) It was Evan's first time at a kids-invited birthday party (and for twins, at that!); and 3) At the party, two kids locked Evan out of the playroom.

And yes, I'm happy about it. Thrilled, in fact.

Since we found out about Evan's diagnosis, my biggest fear has been how other kids will treat him. Kids are cruel--I know. It's only because I grew up in a town with no public transit system and thus no chance of running away that I didn't pack my little plaid suitcase in the middle of 7th grade and high-tail it outta Dodge (also known as Elizabeth, Indiana). It was hell, and 8th grade was even worse. And for all intents and purposes, aside from my big hair, questionable fashion sense, and being something of a teacher's pet, I was so-called normal. Even--dare I say it?--somewhat popular. Yet despite (or because of) that, notes were passed, names were called, tears were shed nightly. Evan isn't what the world terms "normal," and he might never be. And it kills me to write that. But there have been glimmers--no, rays--no, more like beams--of hope lately. It used to be that Evan didn't care if another kid took whatever he was already playing with. He'd just move on to something else while the other parent flushed with embarrassment and apologized for her child's behavior. But the thing is, I wanted Evan to be like that kid. I wanted him to take someone else's toy away; I wanted him to care enough about something to say, No! I got here first, it's mine, and you can't have it. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah. So there. Normal.

And Thursday, it finally happened. We had a friend over, and she took one too many marbles for Evan's liking. And Evan said, "My marbles! Mine!" I was torn between admonishing him and cheering. (I think I told him to share, but honestly, I can't say I said it with much conviction.) Of course, now that I see he's on the right track to sticking up for himself, I'll have to rein him in. Funny how quickly you go from wanting them to fly to making sure they don't overdo it and dive off a cliff head-first.

Back to the party. To give a little background, I have a group of friends scattered around Indy. I call them the Hanover Wives, because all of them either attended Hanover College, or married a guy who did. (For the longest time, I referred to them as "Nate's friends' wives," but after a while that sounded too impersonal... and potentially complicated, depending on where you stick the apostrophe.) Because most of the girls know each other from their sorority days, they have a connection with each other that I don't have, but having 17 kids under 4 between us has bridged that gap considerably.

After Evan was diagnosed with Myotonic Dystrophy, Nate sent out an e-mail to everyone who cared about us and Evan, explaining and asking them to please continue to treat Evan no differently than any other kid. The Hanover Wives and their kids have been above-and-beyond awesome in this department. I don't know if they've had small conversations with their kids about Evan, or if the other kids are just doing what 3-year-olds do best: They see a kid at the sprinkle park who's trying his darndest not to get wet, and they splash him until he joins in. I'm guessing it's probably the latter, because any good mom with the best of intentions would probably tell her kids to "be nice" to Evan, because he's a little different. And honestly, if it were the other way around, that's what I would have said before, too.

"Treat him nicely, he's a little different."

That was before I had a kid who was a little different, and the thing I wanted most was for him to be treated just like everyone else.

So today at the party when a few of us adults heard sounds akin to stampeding elephants in the upstairs playroom, we went to check it out. Turned out Evan had been locked out of the room by two other kids--and it was funny to all three of them. It wasn't malicious; it was just kids being kids. It had nothing to do with Evan being different. And as soon as we got the door open, Evan and the other two went right back to baking their fake cupcakes and cooking plastic apples in the microwave. And I went back downstairs, rejoicing that just like any other kid, Evan had been locked out of the room. Left in the hallway to pound on the door and giggle until his buddies let him back in.

Later outside, a little girl splashed Evan in the kiddie pool. Evan splashed her back. Two little boys who could talk me down called to Evan and asked him to play on the swingset. Sure, Evan was the only kid who refused to eat his piece of birthday cake, and Nate and I had more trouble keeping track of him than the parents who had three kids to contend with, but no one else seemed to notice.

That's not to say that adults--and kids--outside our circle don't notice. Other parents at the playground used to point to Evan's orthotics and ask me if Evan broke his legs (as he was climbing an 8-foot ladder, or sliding head-first down the biggest tube slide). I'd usually say that his legs were weak, and the orthotics were to help strengthen his muscles, though I did tell one overly nosey dad that Yep, Evan fell down a flight of steps, and wasn't it amazing that he made such a speedy recovery? I've never minded when kids ask. They're sincerely curious, and they usually think the designs on Evan's orthotics are cool.

But then the questions got harder.

The first time it happened, a little girl asked me why Evan's mouth always hangs open. It was so unexpected, and I was so stunned that a 3-year-old would even notice this minor quirk that I stammered, "It just does," and walked away, trying not to cry. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that she would notice the tented shape of Evan's lips (a common trait in kids with Myotonic Dystrophy), but I don't have a guide to how much a normal 3-year-old observes. Other kids Evan's age are always surprising me with their language and insight, which to me seems off the charts.

Then a few months ago, I took Evan to Toys 'R Us--I know, stupid me, right? Newly enthralled with trains--but too distracted to help me pick one out--Evan started playing at a train table with a little boy who looked to be about 6. I stood there, watching them play together, happy that Evan was playing so nicely and not saying anything too unusual ("Rooster! Arr-arr-arr-arr-arrrrrr!") or undecipherable that would make any first-grader notice that something was off. Until Evan started laughing. I didn't know what he found funny, and neither did the little boy. He told Evan to stop laughing, but Evan kept laughing. Then Evan started speaking in the mix of Swahili/German/Chinese he reverts to when his thoughts are too complex to use the more simple phrases he knows. The boy said, "You talk funny. What's wrong with you?" Then he mimicked Evan and walked away. And my heart all but broke again. Hours--seconds--later, I wondered if I should have given the boy a simple explanation. Maybe I could have educated him about kids who are different. But the simple explanation failed me. It fails me when he "talks" to the cashiers at the grocery store, who ask him questions he can't answer, then look at me and ask, "What did he say?" And I have to say I don't know, and half-heartedly laugh like it's funny.

I've worried that if we move away someday, Evan's not going to find the kind of friends he has now. I've thought about the sure-to-come scenario where I'll meet some new friends with kids Evan's age, and by that time, it will matter that he's a little different. And the calls for coffee and playdates will slowly drop off--it's happened to other parents I know. And I get it, I really do. But surely there will also be some moms who understand, and have a couple kids who see that in all the ways that matter, Evan's just like them: A soft-hearted, funny, rough 'n tumble, sports- and music-loving boy, who likes ice cream, blowing bubbles, and climbing backwards up the slides at the playground. God's not just going to leave such a friendly little boy no friends to play with.

As I write this at 3:54 in the wee sma's, I'm still up because Evan is also up. He passed out at 8 p.m. for a four-hour nap (hey, it's hard work going to a birthday party), and woke up two hours ago, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with the request to watch "the penguin movie," better known as Happy Feet. For the uneducated, I'll be brief: Penguins sing. They all sing. Baby penguin is born, can't sing. Prefers to tap dance. Baby penguin is teased, leaves colony to find more appreciative penguins. Baby penguin grows up, returns to colony, still teased. Penguin saves the day, gets the girl, teaches a zillion other penguins to tap dance, becomes international superstar. It's the ultimate story of being different, and coming out ok. And Evan loves it. He sits on the couch with his big stuffed penguin and his baby stuffed penguin, and dances them through the entire movie, reciting well over half of the lines verbatim. Call me sentimental, but tired as I am of the movie, I'll never get tired of the message. It's made for Evan.

Evan stuck up for himself three days ago. He didn't want to share. For him, that's huge. And yesterday, he was included. Just. Like. Every. Other. Kid. And if that means he gets made fun of once in a while, well, so be it. I guess that's normal. Because I don't know anyone who's never been teased. For their curly hair. Or their big ears. Or their braces. Or for not following the pack. Anyone who says they've never been picked on was home-schooled and had no siblings. Random ramblings or not, Evan will probably be teased for his big feet, like his papaw's. Or for his long legs, like his daddy's. Or for his fuzzy hair, like mine. Kids will always find something to make fun of. It's part of growing up. And if a tap-dancing penguin and I can survive it, so can Evan, thanks to his sweet, happy-go-lucky nature, some new-found gumption, and a friend or two who'll accept him just the way he is.

Because really, how could anyone not think he's loads of fun?