I started a blog post this morning.

I mean, let’s face it…it’s been awhile.

But it was another busy day out here and that half post now rests with the rest of the half posts I come up with in the bowels of my computer.

It was, to put it lightly, a very negative post.

Not whiny.

Not complain-y.

Just, well, nasty, if you want to know the truth.

Maybe I should include a little snippet so that you’ll see where my mindset has been as of late…

I’ve considered changing my voice mail greeting to, “Hi. You’ve reached Janet. I can’t take your call at the moment because I’ve had it up to here with your whining about nothing and general self absorption. I have finally lost all patience with people who make no effort whatsoever to improve their situations and instead sit around, wallowing in self pity with nothing tangible to complain about. I’m scared of saying something I will wish to take back. Better to just not speak to you at all. Don’t bother leaving a message at the beep. The likelihood of me wanting to listen to your whining nasal voice is about as great as the chance of me actually returning your call. Get a fucking life and leave me out of it.” BEEP.

So, um, yeah….negative. To say the least.

I seemed to be surrounded by it these last few days, with a particular emphasis on some of the men in my orbit, and it was really, really getting to me.

That is, until tonight.

More than a full month ago, C, Julian’s service coordinator and newest worker, came by my place to fill out a few forms and ask me if I wanted to bring my kids to a Christmas party. The local Rotary Club puts it on every year and each service coordinator can invite some of the kids in their care. I signed all three children up (siblings as well as the kids in the program were welcome to attend) and only hesitated a little bit until C explained that Julian did not actually have to attend if I felt it would be too much for him. I then gave her an idea of what the kids wanted for Christmas (I simply said, “Barbie” for the girls and “puzzle” for Julian) and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.

I got a reminder about the party last week in the mail. And I started to fret a bit. I originally thought of just taking the girls…it’s always nice to let them have some fun without their brother…and leaving Julian with his Dad. I then thought about none of us going because, quite frankly, the weather was shitty and my evenings tend to be as jam packed as my days. Finally, after speaking with my wife (whose children both have special needs) who had attended in years previous, I decided to throw caution to the wind and took all three kids to the party, which was held at the local McDonald’s.

We walked in and were greeted by a woman with a list and C who was thrilled to see Julian putting forth his best effort and giving it a shot. There was a full meal, including dessert and whatever else you wanted from the menu, that was all covered by the Rotary Club. In addition, we were told Santa would be making an appearance with presents for all of the kids. Pretty sweet.

But not as sweet as the folks we were partying with.

I have never, EVER, felt less alone than I did tonight.

There was Autism. Downe’s Syndrome. Cerebral Palsy. And a plethora of special needs in between. We were parents, grandparents, guardians and siblings. And none of us were stared at. None of us had to apologize for a scream or a fit or an impromptu session of spinning. Nobody stared when one of our children walked differently up to Santa’s lap. Nobody blinked at a kid’s pajamas (Julian was one of three little dudes decked out in flannel jammies) and nobody had to explain.

I can’t remember the last time I truly exhaled. I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath every time we stepped out into the rest of the world until the rest of the rest of the world stepped in with me.

I’m sure we looked like a sorry bunch to the rest of the diners. I’m sure there was a bit of pity in the folks sitting around us as our children limped or ran or hopped up to Santa. I’m sure there were questions and quiet murmurs as our children bit chairs (that was mine!), hid under tables (mine again!), spoke in a tongue that made little sense but that was perfectly understood by Momma and sister. But what was so amazing and so wonderful and so, fucking CHRISTMAS about the whole thing was that there wasn’t even one teeny, tiny bit of pity in that group.

And * that * was the best gift I have received in a long, long time.