When I married in 1967 I was told I would never have children. My husband and I agreed that adoption would be the route taken for us for bringing children into our family.

When husband decided to go back to school a fellow teacher assured me that if ever I should become pregnant the time was ripe: income cut in half, etc. And she was right, pregnant I became.

I began experiencing problems nearly as soon as I knew that I was pregnant. Knowing little of pregnancy I thought that the first sign of bleeding no matter how small was a sure sign of end of the pregnancy.

I learned that of all pregnancies; about 1/3 experience some episodes of bleeding and of those about 1/3 have one episode and no more, about 1/3 do culminate in miscarriage, and, the last 1/3 experience one or more episodes and deliver sometime between the onset of the first episode and the due date or later.

I was given a lot of reading material by my doctor. At that time there were no groups etc available for women such as myself.

I discovered that of these 'problem' pregnancies about 1/3 of the babies experience no problem, about 1/3 experience some problem and of the last 1/3 massive, life long, problems can be expected.

In my case; the first episode was so frightening with massive amount of blood lost and a rush to ER. It was soon followed by many such episodes and rushes to ER followed by episodes of loss of placental waters as well.

My ob/gyn was a lovely Norwegian man. He was very caring, sympathetic and knowledgeable. He never tried to over dramatize or white wash any part of my situation.

I was told to expect that should I actually deliver a viable child then that child might well suffer many problems.

Each episode and rush to ER were met with the question 'did you experience any pain.' I didn't.

However on 15 September 1969, the fourth day of our new school term, somewhere between the 26 we thought, and 28 week of pregnancy, and, I WAS in my first grade classroom, I did experience pain, and knew this time something was different.

W was born, silent, 3 # and was whisked away when the medical staff finally got a tiny mewing sound from him.

The silence in the delivery room was ominous. W spent many weeks in an isolette during which time he suffered from many 'breathing spells.' At times the little glass box was so filled with oxygen and the walls were so fogged that his dad and I could not even see the tiny form as W struggled for life.

We were told that should W live he would be blind; the oxygen would destroy his eyesight.

Three weeks after his birth we received the telephone call every parent dreads, our child had died.

The trip from Delano to Bakersfield, California his father and I made in the wee hours that morning seemed to be the longest made to date. We were astounded to find ourselves facing not the dead child we expected, but the barely alive infant we did find.

The next few weeks were touch and go. W began to gain a little weight, he learned to suck and the feeding tube was removed. I was taught how to give him a bottle.

At last we were told he could come home. In those days we did not have monitors, and all the wonderful equipment available today.

We carried that tiny mite into the house and everything we did from taking a bath to cooking supper was with W in a bassinet beside one of us.

He never had another breathing episode.

We were told to expect that given the problems of pregnancy and birth and those first few weeks that W was sure to be blind, brain damaged, unable to speak or learn or live in the world in which he had joined.

We soon discovered that tiny though he was; W was alert and giggly. He began talking sooner than many kiddies, and was interested in what was going on around him.

His eyes checked at 9 months showed nothing more than what might be expected for a child born of parents both of whom have/had astigmatism and wear glasses.

W's progress was much that of any other infant although he did not walk, sit nor crawl quite as others did. His crawl began at about 5 months and resembled that of the 'war movie' soldiers ... throw out the arms and drag the legs.

Where other little ones may rub holes in the knees of their pants, W rubbed a hole in the bib of his overalls. He did not sit alone until age 13 months. We used a 'rubber' mat to help wedge W into his high chair.

The chair was an antique, wood, with a tray that swings behind and then up and over the child. No strap or belt were on the chair, we improvised with a tea towel and pins. He joined us at the table. The mat was again used to keep him upright in the kitchen sink for bathing. He tore through the house in his little walker.

I noticed early on that W did not have the snuggly, 'chunk of baby' conformation when held in my arm, he was pretty rigid neck to ankle, kid just didn't bend real good.

Orthopedic exam at age 12 months confirmed that CP was present.

Also at age 12 months W was scheduled for surgery to correct the massive hole in his heart detected by the pediatrician when he was a few days old, 'this is not one of the self closing type.'

My heart stopped when Dr D, tears streaming came into the room where I sat with W.

In his hand he held W's xray. "If you believe in God, you have had a miracle, if not I am a very good doctor." He was and I do.

W's hole in the heart was gone, and it was then that Dr D confessed that he had sent W home to die. "I knew how much you wanted this child, and all the problems in the hospital and I wanted you to have a little time with him before he died."

W at age one was small, however he was alert, living and full of smiles.

Well meaning, mis guided, mis informed family, friends, and others, all assured me that W 'will be so mad when that new baby is born that he will just get up and walk' as though the reason my 'tear through the house in his walker' boy was just being obstinate about not walking alone during the summer before he was 2.

His brother was born 9 days after W's birthday. W had his first surgery on his legs a few days before.

Pictures of W as an infant clearly show that his feet hung at an odd angle... he didn't walk alone because the Achilles Tendon was too tight and he couldn't walk alone.

  That first surgery was done in the days when hospitals were not so aware of the needs of children and parents ... and my little boy spent most of his time in the hospital room alone.

I'm glad to see that times have changed.

W went happily off to surgery with the words, 'now I will walk' on his lips. He awoke to pain, plaster casts on both his legs from feet to hips, his Bunny in a cast and his Andy in a cast and to top it off; diapers on himself. He was incensed.

Often children who do not walk cannot feel their bladder and toilet training is difficult.

W solved that problem for himself beginning at 9 months. He nagged, howled and demanded to be taken to the bathroom every little bit. He loathed wet pants and knew that if he went to the bathroom often he would stay dry. He demanded 'big boys pants,' and set aside the diapers.

He wore the casts for a full year. They were the heavy old plaster kind. He walked the feet out of them, fell into the pool and I used my hair dryer to dry the things out, and he couldn't get into the bath tub until the things were removed.

W was miserable, and thought sure I had lied to him about his being able to walk alone. At last the casts were removed, he was given a cane and I soon saw what W did not yet realize... he was holding the cane but he was walking alone.

His joy knew no bounds when he realized that he was walking by himself.

Because W needed therapy on his legs and feet he was eligible for 'services' ie he could attend the OE (Orthopedic Education) school in Wasco, California. During his 3 years in classes there they never did have a daily or even weekly, staff therapist.

However, he WAS eligible for one, should one come, and went happily off to school every day. He made friendships at that school which have continued to today.

Many years later he and some of his former class/playmates were again students at Bakersfield College together.

One of the first things taught to W at the OE school was how to dress himself. The old saw, 'he puts his pants on as I do, one leg at a time,' is true in part for W and other kids like him.

However, IF you cannot stand on one foot without toppling you improvise.

He was taught to lay down and pull his pants on, and continues to this day. In fact, when brother was about two years old nearly four year old W taught JT to dress himself by laying down and pulling HIS pants on.

W still lays down to dress, JT has progressed to 'the norm.'

W's walking and intelligence were such that at age 6 I enrolled him at our local elementary school. I was met with massive resistance. 'Don't you think he will be happier with other children who have handicaps?'

 Probably, however he LIVES in the real world where most people do not limp and he needs to learn to live in that world as soon as possible.

I didn't tell her that he had already been tested and is a downright intelligent kid.

Because I taught I do understand why many teachers do not relish to have 'special needs' children in the classroom ....

Depending upon the situation, those students often need much attention...which takes the teacher away from the other kiddies. W's teacher was not just being hard nosed about this....

She had the whole class to consider.

Looking at it realistically in a classroom of 25 children, none were, the norm for me was always 40 + until the magical year the state decided that 35 should be tops, we all thought we had died and gone to heaven, and the school day for first grade is/was then on average 6 hours or 360 minutes ( 8:30-2:30) special needs kids DO present real concerns.

Teachers have, on average, 360 minutes available for their daily teaching day in primary grades.

360 minutes of which is reduced by the state mandated 45 to 60 lunch period leaving 300, another 40 minutes is state mandated for 2 recesses and 2 PE periods, leaving 260 minutes during which about 120 are used in group instruction and reading groups leaving 140 minutes of which each child is entitled to 140 minutes divided by 25 giving 5.6 minutes for individual, one on one attention per child.

And they wonder why my hair is grey. I taught in California, however it is not too different from state to state.

On the other hand, also because I taught I am a firm believer that unless kids are really disruptive or need a matron they should be in the regular classroom because 'regular' life is where they will live once their schooling is finished.

A disruptive does child takes away the 5.6 minutes belonging to other children, and teachers are not matrons ie diapers and feeding. As a teacher 'out in the county' we did not have the option of accepting or not 'handicapped' kiddies.

I did have in my classroom a child on chemo, some in braces, others unable to speak, those who had had polio, one girl lost a leg to a gun accident...she was the best jump rope jumper in the room by the by.

I told W's teacher to let him sit next to the door in case of fire drill, assured the hesitant woman that he did not present either feeding or toileting problems and wished her luck.

It didn't take long for her to realize that my kid was smart.

He had been tested and is a certified smart kid, and by years end she was delighted he was there to help raise her class average on the 'standardized tests.'

W's love of learning and education began at age 2 and continues to today.

He suffers from both dyslexia and discalculea ... his method for dealing with dyslexia came at age 6, "mom if I write it backwards to me then it is right to everyone else," and he did not reverse any more letters or words.

I have often thought that W, his aunt my sis who is also dyslexic and others who also suffer from the malady need to be the ones to write the books explaining what and how the malady is.  

After W was grown I asked whether or not the words on the page had become 'right,' his answer, "nah, they are scrambled all over the place, but I just know how to get them together easier now."

My dyslexic, school teacher sis says much the same. I don't know how anyone with dyslexia learns to read. W has a near photographic memory and something when read is imprinted forever on his brain.

Following W's first surgery he was soon mobile and we faced a situation which has caused me to believe that if we well meaning, mis guided adults would only leave kids alone they would work things out.

'oh kids are so cruel, they say such mean things.'

Tosh, W was 3 and not long out of the cast when he and I had gone for another evaluation on W's legs. We were walking, he staggering along, when another child of about 4 noticed and in those quiet tones we parents dread MOM LOOK AT THAT KID. MOM WHY DOES THAT KID WALK FUNNY. MOM. LOOK MOM LOOK.

Mom was scarlet, and nothing she did to shush her tot was working when W tottered over, looked kid 2 in the eye and in his own gentle primal scream BECAUSE I HAD SURGERY, YOU DUMB DUMB. He turned and came reeling back.

I paled, mom 2 was more red faced.

W was satisfied that THAT settled that.

Kid 2 opened his mouth MOM THAT KID HAD SURGERY. THAT IS WHY HE WALKS FUNNY MOM. HE HAD SURGERY. End of story, both kids were satisfied. Kid 2 really was not cruel, he was curious.

When Mom tried to ignore the obvious as though it were not there; she was sending a message that kid was not picking up on thank goodness.

Mom was sending the message that somehow there is something wrong, or bad, or to be ignored in what is obvious before your eyes. A better method would have been for mom to simply say, " I don't know," or "why don't you ask him," or "perhaps he has had surgery."

W's years spent in elementary school were interesting He was bright and I was soon met with 'let's put him up.' To be honest; I firmly believe that kids  are put ahead in school to give parents bragging rights, and my kid went through school with his classmates.

The old saw that they will be bored is not a viable reason for doing such to a kid, in this teacher's opinion.

Pray what do kids do when parents .... My mother was one, or school get the not so bright idea that a child's schooling finished long before his peers is somehow better.

Better than what sez this mom of a certified genius and myself who was thrust out into 'the world' long before most of the kids my age were.

When the school began rumbling about putting W 'up' my answer was simply, "I'll get him a horn, I'll take him to the library for more reading material, and he will learn  another language."

Today he plays a mean clarinet, speaks, writes and reads fluent German and reads anything printed. W joined scouting, and completed requirements for his Eagle without having to receive any special allowances.

Five mile hikes on camporees always found him at the last of the group.

And I had more than one adult scouter tell me they were so glad that he was there, gave them a reason to not  have to try to keep up with the young and agile.

Crippled Children's Society in Kern County offered summer camping sessions for the many 'handicapped' children in the area and W attended many sessions, sometimes more than one in a individual summer. One in particular stands out in my memory and his too for that matter.

We arrived to discover not the usual group in chairs, with canes, and the like, but a whole new group and all were DEAF. W had happened to pick up a card at the county fair the previous fall, a card on which was printed the alphabet in sign.

We parents all watched as my staggering, hearing son and a group of 20 or so mobile, deaf children circled as they took one another's measure.

The bus drove away with the kids all hysterical.

Between W's terrible spelling and his always present big grin; he had a whole new group of friends to 'talk' to.

In fifth grade I did have a little tussle with him ... the school board insisted that book 5 and workbook 5 were to be completed.

In W's opinion they were 'stupid.'

Well, I taught school, and to be honest, given the limited vocabulary and skills that must be taught, 'reading series' are often pretty dull.

Life is often dull, deal with it.

I took W to the library for other books to read at home and he completed his book 5 and workbook 5 at school because it is a requirement.

Life is full of requirements that make no sense. Jobs are as well. Might as well learn to live with it in fifth grade as to face it for the first time on the job. High school gave W a chance to broaden his scope, take part in the school band and accomplish much of what he hoped.

Interestingly the marching season presented no problem. W is well able to motor forward, the steps they use in parade and band routines are such that until W tottered up after a parade no one had even noticed his limp.

One hazard does exist for a kid who totters and plays a clarinet .... More than once I came home to find an ashen faced kid and a clarinet with no bell. ... He had fallen and the bell was shattered.

If we had it to do over; believe I would point him toward an all metal sax. Today W is a happy, at ease with himself, earns his own way working on the computers he loves, young adult.

He lives with a roomie because it is cheaper. W has made a lot of progress from the little boy just out of casts who roared at his over helpful grandmother, 'let me fall, I have to learn by myself.'

Today he grins at whomever has seen him splat on his face. Today he struggles to his feet with a cheery, 'hey I've had a lot of practice falling and getting up,' he likes to dance, continues to read everything printed and staggers.

At age 12 he insisted he be allowed to wear a tee shirt emblazoned with 'heck no I don't have CP, I'm drunk.'

He has learned to accept his limp and his zippers, the scars he wears as a result of the surgeries, as a part of himself, to laugh rather than bemoan his fate and to be his own person. He is the one to first call the scars zippers, and in truth they do resemble them.

Because we are all beset today with 'politically correct' in everything from dog food to job description to color of our skin and to physical 'impairments,' I recently asked W which politically correct verbiage he prefers for himself.

His answer pretty well sums up my own feeling: "At the end of the day whatever the world may say I still limp."