Today’s weather was simply beautiful—a refreshing 65 degrees with a vibrant, cloudless blue sky. I embarked on an outing with our bright red wagon, stocked with sippy cups and snacks, alongside my two children: a spirited boy and a feisty girl. At just turned three and almost two, they are both sensitive yet wonderfully distinct. I wrangled them into the car and set off to the zoo, sharing the experience with about 500 others who were also eager to enjoy the lovely day.
As my youngest delighted in the gentle ride of the wagon, my son confidently approached each animal enclosure, gazing intently through the fences. Just yesterday, he had been a timid little thing, clinging to my leg as we navigated the halls of the occupational therapist’s office. This visit was prompted by well-meaning teachers from his Mother’s Day Out program who believed he wasn’t quite ready for preschool.
My son, with his bright honey-colored eyes that sparkle at the sight of lions, tigers, and giraffes, is both highly sensitive and a bit babyish. He celebrated his third birthday only two months ago, and at home, when faced with disappointments—like a fallen cookie or a disapproving glance from his sister—his first response tends to be whining or crying.
However, at school, he leans in for a hug, seeks reassurance that I’ll return after lunch, and then bravely enters the classroom. He’s the quiet child who rarely cries, never snatches toys from others, and engages with peers mostly for the train tables, playground, and storytime. Yet, during circle time, when singled out, he retreats into himself, almost like a butterfly that has reverted back to a caterpillar. He visibly shuts down, muscles tensing beneath his shirt, his mouth forming a frown.
Observing Circle Time
One day, I decided to observe circle time firsthand.
“Come up here,” a teacher said gently.
He remained still, as if hoping to be overlooked.
“Stand up,” came the prompt. “Okay, now walk over here.”
He moved slowly and reluctantly, reminiscent of Charlie Brown.
“Can you pick out the yellow triangle and place it on the board?”
He froze again.
Hidden from view, I nervously bit my hangnail, desperate to shout, “Just do it! You can!” But I remained silent, chanting in my mind for him to just pick it up.
“Okay,” the teacher encouraged, “Lean down and grab the shape.”
He complied, robot-like.
“Now place it on the board.”
He was stuck once more, staring at the board as if his feet were glued to the ground.
“Walk over and put it on the board. Right there. No, there,” the teacher guided.
Finally, he placed it on the board but remained standing, his posture sagging. I could see the tension lifting from him, as the focus shifted to another child.
I know my son intimately, as I spend nearly every waking hour with him. The teachers don’t witness his tears or his profound shyness; they don’t grasp how he avoids the spotlight. With a baby sister just 16 months younger, he lost some attention that he desperately craved. Yet, he simply takes his time, as that is his nature.
So off to occupational therapy we went, seeking an unbiased assessment. In the therapist’s office, I managed to coax him into a chair after prying him off my leg. The therapist, with her kind demeanor, offered him a crayon and asked him to color. As a left-handed child, my son awkwardly held the crayon in his right hand, anxiously placing his left arm over his forehead and starting to dot the page.
Again, I watched him freeze, sitting right beside him, biting my lip to suppress the urge to say, “You’re doing it wrong.”
He was given a series of tasks—cutting, drawing, naming objects—many of which they claimed he wasn’t executing correctly.
“But does a child just turned three really need to know how to use scissors?” I questioned.
However, today was different. At the zoo, surrounded by joyful children admiring the slow-moving animals and basking in the sun’s rays, my “developmentally delayed” son looked no different from the others.
Do these kids hide their own heartaches, too?
That’s what children do to parents: they tug at our hearts. Yet today brought healing. Perhaps it was the bright sunlight sparking a glimmer of hope or the gentle breeze rustling the trees. Or maybe it was simply my sweet boy, who generously offers hugs and “I love yous,” with his tousled curls adding to his charm.
In this moment, I realized that even in his “imperfections,” there is beauty—a reminder of the perfection that exists within my unique child.