I'm terrified, really. In a few short months her daily therapies will end and she will begin Kindergarten. Is she ready? Of course, that kid was born ready. She'd attend post-graduate seminars if you'd let her. We are all equal in her eyes. This is not about her being ready for the world. This is about the world being ready for her.
We've tried to prepare you for her. We've told you she's likely to hug you upon meeting you and we've told you she is a fearless and stealthy ninja but have we told you that she cries when she is confused? Have we told you that she comes on strong and she'll need help making friends? Have we told you that she can express so much more language than she can understand?
There is so much more you need to know. How can I make sure you know these things?
Did you know that hitting and crying and screaming and running are forms of communication for her? She'll try and tell you what she needs a number of times before she resorts to these methods but even the ninja has limits. You might get hit. I know it isn't okay. I just hope you know she feels there is no other option to make you understand. Can you imagine her frustration?
Her vocabulary has exploded. We are so beyond grateful for her words. We hope you know, as thrilling as her words are, they are unreliable.
What if the kids scrunch their noses up at her. "Who is this rambunctious little girl, with her superhero t-shirts and her boy short hair?"
"Why is she so loud?"
"Why does she cry like a baby?"
"Why doesn't she sit still?"
I know you'll love her, I know you'll help her peers to understand her, but I hope you all have patience for her, too, because, as I have learned, they are two very different things.
I'm sure I'll write to you again in the coming months. I'll sleep less and less and you'll assure me that she'll be loved and cared for like any child. I'll smile and assure you that I know, but the truth is; I am scared.
Grace and Kate's mom. (Shanell)