What a glorious day it was! The weather boasted a delightful 65 degrees, with the sky painted a vivid blue that seemed to stretch on forever. Armed with our bright red wagon, a collection of sippy cups, and a stash of snacks, I set out with my two little adventurers: a spirited three-year-old boy and his almost-two-year-old sister. Both are bundles of joy, each with their own unique quirks.
As we embarked on our zoo adventure, we were joined by what felt like a small army of families eager to bask in the sunshine. My daughter happily lounged in the wagon, while my son marched ahead, his eyes wide with wonder as he peered into each animal enclosure.
Just the day before, he had been a timid little thing, clinging to me like a lifeline in the occupational therapist’s office. We were there for a screening after his well-meaning daycare teachers expressed concerns about his readiness for preschool. My son, with his honey-brown eyes sparkling at the sight of tigers and giraffes, is exceptionally sensitive and often a bit more childish than his age suggests.
He turned three not long ago, and at home, when things don’t go his way—like a cookie that crumbles or a sideways glance from his sister—his first instinct is to whine or cry. But at school, he transforms. He leans in for a hug, asks me to promise I’ll return after lunch, and then he enters the classroom. He’s the quiet observer, rarely shedding tears or snatching toys from his peers. He mingles with the other kids but is mostly there for the train tables, swings, and story time.
Yet, when it’s time for circle time and he’s called to stand up, he seems to shrink back into himself. It’s like watching a butterfly retreat into its cocoon. The tension in his little body is palpable as he becomes a statue, his mouth downturned in distress.
One day, I decided to sneak a peek during circle time. The teacher gently encouraged him, but he stood frozen, hoping to be overlooked. “Can you come up here?” she prompted again. He moved slowly, looking like Charlie Brown on a bad day, and when asked to pick out a yellow triangle, he froze once more.
As I watched from the shadows, my heart raced. “Just do it!” I wanted to shout, “You can do it!” But I remained quiet, a silent cheerleader. Finally, he moved, albeit hesitantly, and after what felt like an eternity, he managed to complete the task.
I know my son better than anyone. I spend almost every waking hour with him, except for those eight hours a week at daycare. His teachers have no idea how shy and sensitive he is; they don’t witness his struggles with attention. Part of his babyish demeanor stems from having a younger sister who took some of the spotlight, but he also simply takes his time—because that’s who he is.
So off we went to occupational therapy for an unbiased assessment. After coaxing him off my leg, I helped him settle into a small chair with a kind therapist who spoke softly. She handed him a crayon, and he clutched it awkwardly in his right hand, nervously dotting the paper while his left arm shielded his forehead. I sat beside him, biting my lip to resist the urge to correct him.
They evaluated his skills—cutting, drawing, naming objects—and the results indicated he was “mildly developmentally delayed.” “Does a just-turned-three-year-old really need to master scissors?” I questioned.
But today, at the zoo, he blended in with the throngs of happy children marveling at animals and soaking up the sun. In that moment, my “imperfect” child looked just like every other kid—full of joy and wonder.
Do other kids hide their struggles too? It’s a question we parents ponder, as our hearts ache for our little ones. But today, among the laughter and sunshine, I found healing. Perhaps it was the vibrant day that sparked my optimism. Or maybe it was the sweet, graham-cracker-scented hugs and “I love you’s” from my curly-haired boy, who radiated sheer joy.
In that moment, I realized that the beauty of my son lies in his imperfections. And I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on a joyful day at the zoo with my two children, particularly highlighting the journey of my sensitive son as he navigates the world. Amidst concerns about his development, I find solace in appreciating the unique qualities that make him who he is. The day serves as a reminder that perfection isn’t necessary for happiness.