"Mama," Olive says, as we wait for our flight home from Boston to Anchorage, "How do people in wheelchairs get on a plane?"
No one with wheels had rolled by before or as she asked this question. My little girl, newly six, was just sitting at our gate wondering about accessibility and flights-- holding an image in her mind of a chair-bound individual and the challenges he or she must encounter with travel.
The night before, Olive noticed the fire alarm on the wall of our hotel room and asked: "Mom, how would someone know there's a fire if they can't hear?"
She jumped on the bed as we spoke, her body so strong and capable. Her brother Elias sat on the other bed next to me, unable to enjoy the classic childhood joy of bed-jumping, he waited for us to leave the room to go ride elevators and escalators, his preferred activity.
(Is it time yet? Can we go now? When are we going? Is it time?)
Sometimes the berth between siblings seems insurmountable, other times I see how the differences only enhances the souls of the other, sister to brother, brother to sister.
She pushes him. He widens her.
I look at Olive as she turns her jumps into somersaults: "Well, hopefully they'd smell the smoke and realize it was a fire so they could escape."
Not willing to stop there, casting her net even wider to include us all, Olive asks: "What if they can't smell?"
Christy, if your daughter hadn't noticed that Elias is "always slow" she wouldn't be worrying about folks with differing ability levels getting ton planes and being safe from fires. It is all part and parcel of the same thing--she is doing so great at processing this on her own and the world's behalf. Thanks for sharing that story.
Posted by: Danielle | 01/24/2016 at 06:30 AM