All of the children in the group were challenged in some way, either through a physical handicap or through cognitive delays. But no matter the disability, these children still seemed to grasp the ideas of “play” and “group.” The boy with cerebral palsy crawled across the floor for contact and was able to engage his peers whether he could walk or not. All of them moved in and out of play, gathering in two’s or three’s to stack pots and pans in the kitchen, cradling dolls and putting them to bed, stacking blocks, rolling balls, just doing what children do. At circle time, those who could sing, joined along, those who could not, provided percussion or rocked, but somehow they all connected with the song and through the song to one another. All except for my daughter.
My daughter who orbited the room. Orbited slowly if left alone, but who picked up her pace if any child or teacher came near. My daughter who did not so much play with toys as cling to them, clutching a tiny giraffe or block in her fisted hand. Who might pick up a car, but instead of rolling it, would stand for a full half hour opening and closing its tiny doors, the repetitive motion never losing its allure. My daughter who paced the playground, stroking its fenced perimeter with her open palm. My daughter who crawled into the play tube, but then just stopped half way through, with no intention of ever returning to the hub-pub of the class. My daughter who would hardly even sit at the activity table, who shook her fingers free of glue, who refused to grasp a crayon.
But also my daughter who at eighteen months picked out Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star on the tiny play-piano. Who, while she was playing, might let you approach, draw up to her side as she plinked out her song. Who could play back any simple melody you played. Who found her one companion, the music she carried away from the keys to where she sat alone cupping notes in her hands , rocking to their memory. Who could say what music swam in her head and what she sang there?
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