Bubbles in the sun

I write a lot of angry posts, because I’m angry a lot. I have reasons to be angry. But there are reasons to be happy, too, and this is a happy post. Today I watched my son and a little girl who’s spent most of her life fighting for it, play outside together.

I’ll back up for a moment. Earlier in the day, I took Monkey to a group activity with other children his age. During the hour we were there, he did not talk to any other children and none of them tried to talk to him. He spent a large chunk of his time waving a stick in front of his face and scripting, which is his favorite activity right now. At one point another little boy ran into his stick and decided that Monkey was “mean.” I then got to hear his mother’s comments about how my son shouldn’t be waving a stick around (probably true, but good luck stopping him).

This is pretty typical of our social interactions lately. Monkey hasn’t had a play date in months, since my last mom friend left the area and then (for bonus points) told me she didn’t want a friend who talked about her kid’s health problems all the time. When he is around other children, he doesn’t know what to do, and they don’t “get” him.

Anyway, we ran some errands and went home. Monkey relaxed with his favorite TV episodes and waved his stick without constraint. It warmed up outside, sort of; it was sunny enough to pretend it was warm. We went out into the courtyard of our apartment complex to play with the giant bubble wand, and were joined by a little girl who lives in another apartment with her grandmother. We’ve run into them several times before.

Monkey and the little girl took turns with the bubble wand for a while. Then I made bubbles, and they chased them. Then they chased each other. While they ran around, I learned from her grandmother that, although her hair has recently grown back in, the girl has been battling cancer since she was a year old. I then shared Monkey’s medical history, as best I could with the language barrier we were dancing around. We watched our children, both of whom have spent too much of their short lives in hospitals, and in pain, and isolated, and hooked up to medical equipment, run and scream and laugh together on the sunlit grass.

Soon they had to leave, although the girl didn’t want to. The moment broke like one of Monkey’s bubbles, but that unexpected human connection, so close to home, stayed with me. Monkey kept telling me, excitedly, that the girl had played with him. He felt it too.

I hope they’ll get to play together again.

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