My 10 year old son is small. Since kindergarten, he has been the oldest and the smallest in his class.

One of the reasons that we chose a small, private school is because, for the most part, everyone knows each other. The parents understand that my son is not a typical child and many of them have discussed his differences with their own children. It has created an atmosphere where my son is comfortable and where the kids are, mostly, kind to him. (Note to the three boys who make fun of my child: You’re going to want to knock that off, m’kay?)

Each year we have an influx of families who have never met my son and some of them are surprised when they find out he is 10 years old. Of course, adults do a much better job of hiding their shock than kids do and it isn’t uncommon for a new student to ask my boy how old he is and upon hearing the answer to say, “Wow. You’re little for 10!”

Just two ten year old friends, kickin’ it.

I recently overheard a boy say this to him, so the other night I casually mentioned it while making dinner. I picked up his 48 pound frame, placed him on the kitchen counter and said, “I know kids sometimes tell you how small you are. What do you say to them?”

He replied, “Well sometimes I say, ‘I know I’m small. People come in all different shapes and sizes.'”

I went on with my cucumber cutting and nodded. “Good answer.”

He continued, “And, sometimes I tell them that I really like being short because when I walk along the creek with Daddy, I don’t have to duck when we go under the little bridges.”

For that, my boy got a high-five. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in logic.

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Since my son was a baby, someone from the county has come out to work with us on his needs. As an infant, he got in-home occupational and physical therapy. When he got a little older, he attended a preschool for special needs children and when he neared school-age, we got OT and behavioral therapy ala carte while the county paid the bills.

Now that my boy attends a typical school and is functioning with mild delays, we don’t use the county funding much, but once a year his case manager still has to make an appearance at our house to go over his status. She visited us last week.

For the first 30 minutes she asked me questions about my son’s health and hospitalizations. Then she started asking him the questions.

She inquired about his age, what chores he does around the house and the extra-curricular activities in which he’s involved. She asked him if he can still dress himself, if he has a problem turning on the water when he showers and then…she asked him if he’s shaving yet.

This is a valid question.

Despite being 10 years old and only 48 pounds, my son is kind of hairy. You can see the faintest hint of a mustache above his upper lip and I admit to taming his unibrow. I blame our Lebanese genes.

Still,  I think his case manager was taken off-guard when he replied, “No, I don’t shave yet. But, do you want to see my hairy back?”

Unfortunately for us, the county draws the line at paying for wax jobs.

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My son got hearing aids yesterday. A few people have been surprised to find out that his hearing loss was bad enough to warrant them, but trust my raised voice when I tell you that I have been answering the question, “What?” for years.

I won’t sugarcoat it and say it’s easy to have a kid with health problems or that I didn’t feel like getting new medical equipment was a giant step in the wrong direction, but this morning when he told me that he heard footsteps for the first time, my heart almost exploded.

Plus, there’s a chance he won’t sound so unpatriotic in the shower anymore.

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My nine year old son started attending school when he was two.

For the first year, or so, he went to a county-run preschool for children with developmental disabilities because of his motor and speech delays. It was a good place for him to get daily therapy and socialization, but it wasn’t really the right fit for him.

When he was old enough, we moved him to a local preschool and into a classroom with a teacher/student ratio of 2/9. The teachers were attentive and patient and we kept him there through Pre-K, which, in the end, turned out to be a pretty disastrous school year.

For Kindergarten, we turned to a small, private school where they hired me to work as an aide. If my son ever had any issues, I was right upstairs, and when he moved into first grade I started working in the cafeteria so that I could be there even more.

This year, he is in third grade. I don’t work at the school anymore and, ironically, it is the first time that I have sent him off in the morning without ever-looming worry. I know he will be fine.

What makes this year so different isn’t that he’s doing better academically; he has always done well in that regard. It isn’t because he’s more independent, because that has been a long, slow process that I couldn’t help but see coming. And, it isn’t because he doesn’t choke as often when he eats…though that is pretty awesome.

This year is terrific because his teacher “gets” him.

There is something to be said for understanding that everyone, even children, have different personalities…and boy, does my kid have one! The third grade teacher appreciates my son’s sense of humor. I know this, because almost every time she approaches me to tell me when he’s been up to, she is laughing.

The other day, when she saw me at the school, she did just that.

Apparently, that day, when the class handed in some papers, she saw that my son’s wasn’t labeled with his name.

She noticed before he walked away and said, “Hey, wait a minute. How will I know this is yours if you didn’t put your name on it?”

He took his worksheet back from her and quickly took pencil to paper.

Then he handed it back and said, “Here. Mine’s the one with the X.”

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