The Darnedest Things, Indeed!

Objectively (and abstractedly, I might add), I know that I can’t censor/monitor/manipulate the many and diverse influences in my daughter’s life. Generally, I wouldn’t want to, anyhow (well, most of the time). It’s a notion that comes up and gooses you, the day the F-word, used appropriately and coupled with “idiot” comes out of your three-year-old’s mouth. We recently relocated and a lot has changed in her life. We are at a different daycare in a strange town, with a weird, new group of friends. And I don’t mean for “weird” to hold any sort of negative connotation. I am weird and damn proud of it. Kyra is also a bit of an eccentric, so the people are actually so normal/bland/sane that it’s odd from the other side. That’s all.

Amongst her new group of peers is a child who displays very clear signs of Tourette’s Syndrome and far worse symptoms of parents in deep denial. Were they able to see what was bothering the poor child, he could be in less pain and properly treated, but they refuse, even, to acknowledge it. This boy has rubbed off on my daughter to the point that she sees similar outbursts as funny. She’s always been a young comedienne and I fear that this will (at her tender age) effect her filter for (mostly) “acceptable social behavior”. I do walk a line between really dorky/goofy/slightly vulgar and completely “acceptable social behavior”, because I tend to say what’s on my mind. Mine, however, is not a terribly sick mind. Yes, I like my dirty jokes, and innuendo cracks me up, but it’s pretty innocuous and fairly Jr. High in nature, so I tend to get away with it.

My daughter has taken to imitating the compulsiveness of this boy’s behavior, inadvertently borrowing (if you will) a serious psychological disorder. It concerns me, and I’ll tell you, I don’t scare easily. In fact, ‘Motherless Brooklyn’ is one of my favorite books (I’m not going to give away the allusion, either, so don’t wait for it: just go read the thing). When a child who’s hurting is made to continue suffering because his/her parents don’t want to deal with what they (must) know, it hurts my heart. When my daughter brings home the long-reaching psychological repercussions of that, we’ve got a problem. It feels like Fate, or God, or whatever the Universe needs me to heed, reaching out to me on behalf of that poor little guy. Because, I think, It knows I can do nothing but help him.

And believe me, I will.


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