Sadly, the train broke down halfway around the baseball field.
This past Saturday was the Bash and Dash at Billy's school, the annual fundraiser for the school. (Let's save for another day discussion of the topic of WHY a public school finds itself in a position of having to hold multiple fundraisers.)
Bash and Dash was great: well-organized, fun, and amazingly well-attended. There were pony rides and train rides and bounce houses and carnival games. That's the "Bash" part of the day.
But we started with the "Dash." There was a race for each age group, including pre-Kindergarten, Billy's group.
We had been practicing "racing" for weeks. I'd shout, "Ready, set, GO!" in the back yard and we'd run from one fence to the other. During his ABA therapy, Billy would race Ms. Elyse, I would race Billy; sometimes Ms. Elyse and I would race each other. We talked non-stop about the race.
I still wasn't sure how it was going to work out. Despite all our rehearsal, whenever he hears "Go!" Billy is just as likely to run towards the closest available toy as he is to run towards the finish line. As usual, I debated with myself: about whether introducing him to the idea of competition at this stage was even healthy; about whether the crowds would upset him; about whether he might actually fall and get hurt.
I was ready to pull out of the whole thing. Then I got a package in the mail.
When I opened it, I pulled out a trophy. It was about 18 inches tall and engraved like this:
My mom and dad.
I called them, and sure enough, my mom owned up. "I wanted Billy to know," she said, "that no matter what, he's a winner."
And she was right. Plus, I couldn't back out now that they had invested in what Billy lovingly referred to as "The Statue of Liberty."
Race day dawned bright and beautiful, and we arrived at the starting line with several minutes to spare. Several of Billy's friends turned up, including one beautiful girl who marched right up to him and grabbed his hand in hers, as though she sensed he needed a little reassurance.
As we had practiced, Dave stood with Billy at the starting line, and Willow and I went to the finish. When a volunteer tried to move me out of the way, I explained that my autistic son was planning to run toward me, and if I wasn't standing there, he was very likely to head for that little circle of unattended ponies (the pony rides hadn't started yet). I was allowed to stay.
The boys lined up (girls raced separately). When their little legs started pumping, I couldn't believe how excited I was. I was screaming and crying and shouting for Billy.
Even from a distance, I could see he was beaming with happiness. He was looking from side to side at the crowds lining the race path. Crowds. That was something we hadn't worked into rehearsal.
Billy's in the red shirt!
Rather than run flat-out, he kind of loped along, half-galloping, watching the other kids run in front of him. He likes to chase.
They all crossed the finish line in front of him and I could see Billy laughing with joy. He was happy for them. And he was inches from the finish line.
And then he turned around and headed the other direction.
He was out there on his own, the race was over for everyone else, and he was running the wrong way. I started shouting for him: "Billy, this way! Come this way, baby!"
At that moment, I just wanted him to finish. The other racers in his group were already getting their trophies and medals, and the older kids were already lining up for the next race, but I so wanted Billy to cross that finish line.
No one raised an eyebrow when Billy got the biggest trophy.
Then something beautiful happened. Everyone started joining in. On both sides of the race path, kids and adults were shouting, "Come on, Billy! This way!" And waving him toward the finish line.
Laughing, he turned around. He saw me and Willow. And he started running toward us. As he crossed the finish line and leaped into my arms, there were cheers all around us.
Of course, everyone was proud of the kids who ran the fastest. I would never want to take away from their winning moments.
But at the moment Billy crossed that finish line, we all felt like winners.
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Friday April 01 2011 08:55:34 pm
Katybeth
What a gift Billy's parents gave the community that race day. Your boy ran the race but you put your heart on the line.
Billy I suspect with go far.
?
Saturday March 12 2011 01:53:20 pm
Brenda (mamabegood)
Amanda, I wanted to tell you all a whole buncha lovely compliments, delightful insights, and inspiring poems ... But after I got through reading the 512 comments, my brain has been erased. Love your blog.
Go Billy!
Wednesday March 02 2011 06:46:00 pm
Jennie B
I loved this! Definitely tearing at the end, and so happy he crossed that finish line with the support of a whole community behind him. And what awesome grandparents he has to think of that trophy.
Wednesday March 02 2011 06:22:15 pm
writerwoman61
I reposted this on Facebook, and this was my Aunt Connie's comment:
"Wendy, I read this and cried. I, too, cheered this little guy to the finish line. Your friend writes beautifully. You do, too. I love you. Thank you for sharing."
Wendy
Snippets 'N Stuff
Tuesday March 01 2011 09:05:13 pm
DeeAnn Lancaster
I LOVE this! He has awesome grandparents, doesn't he!? :)
Awesom
Tuesday March 01 2011 09:04:16 pm
Big Daddy
Awesome from so many perspectives. Hooray for Billy's grandparents. And the other kids in his class. Most of all, hooray for him.
Tuesday March 01 2011 04:41:26 pm
Ruth Creamer
Mandy, I love all your articles, but this one especially touched me today! You are such a special mommy and Billty is such an exceptional little boy. *I'm so glad he "won" - I n our eyes he is a winner every day. God gives special children to special people - I truly believe this.
Total 15 comments