A friend of mine is in the midst of checking out special education preschools for her little boy. She went to visit one the other day and described to me how kind of taken aback she was when first stepping in the building. She was overwhelmed with what she saw and had a hard time processing all of it.

I remember that feeling well.

For the first year of Amichai’s life, I juggled my own work schedule around Amichai’s therapy (PT and OT) schedule. When Amichai was about eight or nine months old, his PT suggested that we place him in a special education preschool for the upcoming year. Huh? My limited perception and understanding of special education was reserved for children with learning disabilities.  As far as we knew, those were not Amichai’s challenges so what exactly was she talking about?

She explained that special education includes physical disabilities as well. (As I read over this line, I am shocked at my obliviousness and downright ignorance.) Amichai’s PT worked at a preschool that provided various therapy sessions throughout the day – whether that was one on one or group work. Plus, the teachers and staff were trained by the PTs and OTs on how to engage the kids so that even within the context of play, the children were getting in extra work. She felt that placing Amichai in this type of environment would really give him a push forward. Every day he would be getting consistent and intense therapy.  This all sounded good to me, but it was still hard to get past the title of Special Education. What did that really mean? What did that look like? She encouraged me to visit the school.

Like my friend, the first time I took a tour of the school I too was taken aback. I too was overwhelmed when I saw a row of little wheelchairs and walkers lined up outside a classroom. And I was overwhelmed again when I walked into that classroom and saw kids fitted in leg braces and sitting in chairs with safety belts. There was one little girl wearing a helmet. I felt my eyes widen a bit, and I started to look away. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Am I in the right place?

For close to a year, I had gained a deeper understanding of what CP is and how it specifically affected Amichai. I accepted what happened and I tried with everything that I could to embrace the challenges that it presented – to teach Amichai that nothing can stop him. I believed in what I preached to him, but this – wheelchairs and walkers? safety belts on chairs? – Amichai didn’t need these things. This was not our world. This world was scary.

When Amichai is scared, I tell him that its ok to be afraid. There are things out there that can make us jump I tell him. But once we understand that it’s only a loud noise, or its just dark – well than maybe we can see it’s not so bad after all. And maybe next time it won’t be so scary. Also, it helps that he holds my hand…

If I was going to teach Amichai how to get over his fears, I had to do the same. Why were the wheelchairs and the walkers and the helmets scaring me? Why did I look away? Because at that time, to me – they just represented disability. It wasn’t that I was in denial about Amichai’s diagnosis. I knew what the challenges were, but because I wittnessed his accomplishments every day and the determination he displayed – I never thought (and will never think) of him as disabled. And I certainly did not want Amichai to live in a world where he is defined by disability. This was not our world.

What I learned though was that the school didn’t place itself in the world of disability either. The entire staff – from teachers, to therapists, to the guy who builds those seat belt chairs – they all live in a world of potential and promise. They see these little kids with their whole lives before them and are deeply committed to building a strong foundation for them. They believe in their talents. They believe in their abilities, and that is incredibly empowering. When I realized this – and it certainly did not happen overnight – I was able to look fearlessly at the wheelchairs and the walkers and the braces and say – you do not scare me anymore. Today, when I walk into the school, I don’t even notice the wheelchairs. I see them, but I don’t. What I do notice, what has become for me the defining feature of the school, is how happy these kids are. They smile and laugh all the time.

It can be liberating to let go of your fears. We have these notions and perceptions as to what perfect is. Perfect body. Perfect job. Perfect house. Amichai helped me see that really, perfect is as perfect comes. Everyone is granted gifts. Sometimes those gifts don’t always come in what we perceive to be normal packaging. But you have them, they are yours – so own them. When challenges come – and they most certainly will -rely on your own perfect to see your way out…I can also say that through my own experiences, someone will always be there to hold your hand too – even when you stubbornly insist on doing it yourself.

I think, more than anything – this is exactly what Amichai’s school is trying to impart to its young students. Embrace your perfect, reach high with everything you got, and know there are always people who are cheering you on.

And I think that’s a pretty special education.