The missing house and then some.

A house was just torn down one block from us. I drive by every single day at least four times (Should we discuss the myth of "stay-at-home" motherhood?).  I am mesmerized by the pile of rubble because for the life of me, I can not remember what the house looked like that was standing there just days ago.

If pressed, I would tell you about the neat yard in front of the house next door. The cute fence that makes me smile.

If asked for more detail, I could regale you with the addition the home two doors down made recently. I was captivated watching the renovation from my daily drive-bys.

But the house that is now gone -- I have nothing. I can not conjure up a single memory. I was obviously so busy looking from cute fence to cool renovation that I missed something else entirely.

And though I know it is completely ridiculous, I feel terrible about that. Actually, I feel sad. What did I miss? Was it in disrepair? Did it need an overhaul or just a gentle renovation? Was there a story?

And even as I ponder, I can't help but think how often I rush from place to place possibly passing by someone who needs a word, a gentle touch, a bit of time to share their story.

And then I am forced to take a deep breath and recognize that it is far more than just my rushing from place to place -- sometimes, I get so caught up in being the family with Cerebral Palsy, that I can't see much beyond those walls.

Last week we went to a theatre show. The front row was reserved for us with a chair removed for Benjamin's wheelchair. It was perfect.

Except it wasn't perfect for the people behind us apparently. We heard the rustle as they moved but wouldn't have thought much except a child asked the parent why they were moving, to which she replied, "Someone tall sat in front of us." I turned and smiled trying to make a joke because I was certain she didn't mean for us to hear -- "Oh, people say that about me all the time," I said. (They don't -- I am not even 5 feet 2 inches tall.)

She didn't acknowledge me and repeated the sentiment another time causing my daughter to lean over to me and say in less than a hushed whisper, "Mom, do they know just because he has CP doesn't mean he is deaf?"

The show began and it was fabulous. Except for the simmering hurt and anger that I couldn't push down. I was consumed thinking that anyone would resent us being in front of them. I was consumed with hurt that the world just thinks my family is in the way. I was consumed.

After the show, I asked my son how the whole thing made him feel.

Would you like to know what he said? 

"Oh it didn't bother me. Maybe my wheelchair blocked her view some."

And then he continued discussing his favorite parts of the musical.

See it didn't affect him in the least that the family moved OR that they said out loud that the reason they had to was the tall theatre-goer in front of them. He didn't let it interfere with his immense pleasure in the musical literally right in front of us. He didn't get so caught up in his own stuff -- his own self -- that he missed everything beyond that wall. 

I don't think I will ever figure out what the house looked like that is no longer standing. But oh how I hope I figure out how to follow the example my son sets for me. And soon!