When was the last time you saw something for the first time? Unless you're a particularly adventurous person who experiences new things on a regular basis, a long time ago is probably the answer. By the age of, say, 25 most of us have seen an aeroplane in the sky (and can distinguish it from Superman), know what a tall building is, and can identify a disabled person.
The amazing thing about children is that they're genuinely seeing all of these things for the first time. Curiosity dominates their lives as they absorb more information in just a few years than we adults will absorb during the rest of our lives, and one of the things they're most curious about, it seems, is 'us'.
Having spent my entire childhood being pointed at by children of all ages (some more politely than others), it would be fair to say that I have developed a slightly wicked sense of humour when it comes to dealing with their attentions. When you're young, all you want to do is make friends and fit in, and while I was reasonably successful at doing the former, the latter never really happens when you don't have legs. There's nothing that makes you feel inexorably different quite like walking into the local corner shop to buy your weekly bag of sweets and hearing the words, "Dad, that boy's got no legs!" If I'd received a pound for every time I'd heard that, I'd be on a beach right now.
Although, on the plus side, I knew for sure that I had reached the coveted state of manhood when kids started to say, "Dad, that man's got no legs", and the occasional times when they still say "boy" is flattering to say the least.
Although, on the plus side, I knew for sure that I had reached the coveted state of manhood when kids started to say, "Dad, that man's got no legs", and the occasional times when they still say "boy" is flattering to say the least.
To cope with being the centre of attention when out an about, one has to develop certain defence mechanisms. Mine has always been to make a game out of it. I would (and still do) roll into a shop or other public place where there were children and assess the situation immediately: how long before they notice me; will they notice me, and, most importantly, how long will it take for the accompanying parent(s) to realise my presence and think Oh no, how embarrassed will I be when my kid starts rudely pointing at that poor guy? I'm going to look like the parent who didn't open his child's mind to the world's infinite possibilities - a thought which is always betrayed by their faces.
I hope this doesn't sound cruel. I'm certainly not looking forward to such uncomfortable situations with my children in the future, but I'd like to think that one of the benefits of being disabled is that social tolerance will be fairly easy to teach them, with me being a living, breathing example of it. Perhaps that's a naive assumption, though. Anyway, it's amusing to see parents squirming in those situations.
One time, when I was seven, I was playing in the sandpit of a holiday caravan park. Three kids who were roughly the same age as myself approached the pit and, as they got in, the most observant one saw that I was moving myself around on my hands. He asked where my legs were. Oh, the possibilities! I always think to myself when that question arises. My girlfriend says she'd be so proud of me if I ever looked a child directly in the eyes and said "Crocodile"...but I'm too much of a coward. Or maybe I respect children and don't want to exploit their natural naivety. I confess it would be amusing to do so, though. After all, why stop at crocodile when I have a whole universe of vicious animals and tragic accidents at my disposal?
You think this is bad; you should see the other guy.
Back in the sandpit, I told the kid that I was a magician who had buried his legs in the sand and detached himself from them. He looked sceptical, so I went back to the spot where he had first seen me, took out my magic wand (a twig) and drew a magic circle around myself in the sand. Then I feigned effort and lifted myself up. The kids were amazed and asked excitedly if my legs were still under the sand. I assured them that they were and that they just needed to dig for them. Then I walked away.
You think this is bad; you should see the other guy.
Back in the sandpit, I told the kid that I was a magician who had buried his legs in the sand and detached himself from them. He looked sceptical, so I went back to the spot where he had first seen me, took out my magic wand (a twig) and drew a magic circle around myself in the sand. Then I feigned effort and lifted myself up. The kids were amazed and asked excitedly if my legs were still under the sand. I assured them that they were and that they just needed to dig for them. Then I walked away.
When I peeked through the window of my caravan ten minutes later, those poor kids were still digging.
Being a no-legged kid wasn't always that fun, however. I used to shed many tears after being called names, even by my own brother when he was in a bad mood - kids can be cruel. But people can get used to anything. These days, I get enormous satisfaction from rolling quickly in my wheelchair down pavements and through museums, knowing full well that kids will get into trouble for running after me. It's such fun. I may be 25 but I'm still that seven-year-old playing in the sandpit at heart.
There are far too many similar incidents for me to include in this post, but perhaps other disabled people will want to use the comments section to share their own stories. I'm sure they'll all have in common that wonderful moment when a child's eyes just lit up for the briefest of moments as they became suddenly aware of a new possibility in the world; that there was a new adventure. God, I miss that feeling.
