My child is like a marionette, strings stretching to the heavens, invisible yet deeply felt. I often wonder who pulls these strings, as they seem cruel. He dances and jumps, sometimes stumbling or spilling his drink. You know that sinking feeling when you see your child get hurt? It’s like witnessing them tumble down the stairs, day after day.
My son has surrendered control of his body to Tourette Syndrome. I recognize that it could be far worse, but I still find myself mourning the loss of a typical childhood for him—one where he could navigate life without teasing or curious stares, where I wouldn’t need to prepare new friends with, “Just so you know, my son has Tourette’s.”
Yet, there’s a silver lining. My child will never blend into the background, and this experience will instill in him a sense of endurance. Even when he doesn’t want to be in the spotlight, he will inevitably be the center of attention. This will cultivate his leadership skills and help him master the intricate connection between mind and body, making him stronger than most.
His resilience astounds me. He confidently informs his peers about his tics, which they mistakenly think are bugs. With a chuckle, he clarifies, “No, it’s a different kind of tic.” So far, his second-grade classmates have been kind and understanding, which makes me question why adults often lack that grace. When we’re out in public, I notice adults staring—some even with disapproving looks.
My son’s tics don’t impair his vision; he notices the stares, and it bothers him. “I don’t want to be different,” he confided to me once. I share his frustration. At times, I’m tempted to respond to those stares with a gesture that’s not very parent-like. I’ll admit, I’ve done it. There was a woman in Target who glared at him with a look of utter disdain—she had it coming.
The first time my son asked how to handle the stares, I was caught off guard. Seeing the hurt in his eyes, I didn’t want him to feel any different from his peers. In a moment of panic, I blurted out, “Just say, well, poop on you.” Thankfully, he found that hilarious—what school-age kid doesn’t love bathroom humor?
Recently, I overheard him muttering, “Well, poop on you,” when he caught someone staring. I had long forgotten my advice, but it turns out it works for him. It redirects his thoughts and helps him cope with the situation, so we’re keeping it.
It’s natural to look; curiosity is human. But I ask one thing of you: when you glance at him, please wear a smile. He sees you, and a frown or a look of confusion can be misinterpreted by an 8-year-old. If you continue to stare, don’t be surprised if he mutters an insult under his breath. And yes, I might just return your stare or give you the finger. I may not be winning any parenting awards, but this approach works for us.
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In summary, while it’s perfectly okay to look, a little kindness goes a long way. A smile can transform a moment of confusion into one of acceptance, and perhaps together, we can create a more understanding world for our children.
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