And Painters

Our international adoption doctor called us today with a myriad of results from Zeb's tests last Tuesday. We were particularly curious about the bone age scan he underwent (sounds scary, but it was a simple xray of the growth plates in his wrist) since he is exceptionally delayed both developmentally and physically. He is aged at 5 years 6 months and the scan is accurate within 6 months, approximately. On paper he is much older than this, so sometime next spring we will start the process to re-age him on official documents, before the new school year, so that he is not thrust into a compulsory age of attendance when he is not the original paper age in the first place. Phew, that's confusing. Thanks for reading through that jumble.

All of this to say how it makes my heart ache and I get this rush of warm over my body when I sit him down to do what all 5-year-olds love to do ... paint.

Paint? What is paint? What is a paintbrush? What is drawing paper? What are watercolors? What is a smock? Which side of the brush do I hold? Colors? Mixing colors? Making purple? Brown?

How is there such disparity in this world? The sadness was arresting as I stood there looking at him and then at my other children and thought, gosh, how can we as human beings sit quietly while children are wasting away. It's not just painting ... holding a fork, seeing socks for the first time, wiping his bum, eating slowly with the complete assurance that the food will still be on his plate for the next bite, running water, sheets, lotion, band aids and caring hands ... truly disparity.

So, today, we painted. Baby steps to bridge the injustice.

And speaking of injustice ... Mae was forced to study grammar in lieu of painting today.