Children Like Them

There I was in the Principal's office, again. It had been over 30 years since last time.

Yet, here I was, waiting, until he walked in and sat at his desk.

"How can I help you?" he asked, shuffling some papers, avoiding eye contact.

"Do you know what's unusual about me being in the Principal's office?" I asked. He didn't. "This time," I pointed out, "you're the one who's in trouble."

"How so, sir?" he asked smugly. Now his eyes met mine.

Moments earlier, I had been in a Special Ed teacher's conference about my son, whose diagnosis makes him prone to inappropriate outbursts--shouting, head-banging, and other maladaptive behaviors.

"Children like them..." she had begun. Her introduction, to whatever message she had for me, had the force of continuity with the universe, as she rubbed her third-trimester pregnant belly gently.

"Children...like them?" I said.

"My children. My class. It's mostly Down syndrome and mild spectrum. There's not much trouble from children like them."

Like them.

"Your son can't be here, disrupting my classroom."

"This is Special Ed, right?"

"Right, but there are limits."

"Your limits?"

"Reasonable limits. I'm afraid you'll have to find another place for him."

"That's why the petition?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered. "From many parents, to remove your son."

I smiled. "I see you're pregnant."

"Yes. We've waited a long time, too. Now it's so close. We're very excited. I start maternity leave next week."

"That's great."

"It is. So I hope you'll understand I'd like my last week here to be business as usual. Without the commotion and disruption."

"That would be nice. All of your children here, the children like them, so quiet and peaceful and docile, as specially babysat as only Special Ed can."

"Sarcasm?"

"No. The law. Would you like to accompany me to your Principal's office?"

"No. I'm sure you two can work out your son's removal. I have my children to deal with."

I looked at her, mustering a flat affect to contain my rage.

"Your children," I intoned. "All kept tidy and cataloged neatly in their little box." I looked at her pregnant belly again--demonstrably. "I sure hope your baby's normal."

And that's when she slapped my face hard. It was a spinal reflex.

And while what she thought she had heard was every expectant parent's paranoia--how karma's favorite blossom is irony--what I had said, in truth, was my most ardent loving wish for every expectant mother, everywhere--knowing what I know.

Even her.