Purim Suprises

Purim has never really been a big thing in our family.

Three out of my five children refused to go to school on Purim; not once or twice, every year. They just hated it. The noise, the costumes, the chaos. Asaf had no choice; he had to go to school and the last child just tolerated it. I was never one of those parents who spends weeks designing the perfect costume.

In our house, Purim was something we mostly got through.

This year was the first time I had the opportunity to actually ask Asaf if he wanted to dress up. I asked almost as an afterthought, convinced I already knew the answer would be no. He does not like crowds. He does not like noise. He definitely does not like sudden noise. If there is a holiday built around all of those things, it is Purim.

But instead of assuming, I asked.

And he typed:

"I want to dress up as a businesswoman with a wig and a skirt, jewelry and makeup."

I just stared at the screen.

A businesswoman. With details.

It was so specific, and so joyful, and so completely different from what I had imagined he would say.

And it made me realize something that happens to all of us as parents, especially when we are raising a child with disabilities. Over time, we build a set of beliefs about what our children like, what they can handle, and what will be too much for them.

Sometimes those beliefs come from real experiences. Sometimes they come from patterns we have seen before. And sometimes they are simply the stories we tell ourselves because they make the world feel more predictable.

But those stories can quietly become limitations.

So we bought and borrowed  the wig. A skirt. A nice shirt. Make up. A necklace.

He got dressed as a businesswoman. The wig only lasted a few minutes before it became too overwhelming from a sensory perspective. The skirt and the jewellery stayed. The lipstick was applied with great enthusiasm, and then promptly licked off his lips, and eaten.

And then we did something we had never done before.

We went to the Megillah reading.

In previous years I never even considered taking him. I assumed it would be overwhelming. Too loud, too crowded, too unpredictable.

But this year we went.

He sat present, happy and content. And something inside me shifted. For the first time, I did not feel self conscious about the happy noises he was making. I did not worry about what people around us might think.

This is my son.and this is how he communicates joy.

He was clearly having a wonderful time.

He stayed until the very end. Sitting there, part of the community, listening to the Megillah like everyone else. When everyone got up to dance, he danced too. In that moment, watching him dance with everyone else, my heart grew. It was a small moment in some ways. Just a costume, a synagogue, a megila reading.

But for me it felt much bigger.

It reminded me how easily we can confuse protection with limitation. How quickly we decide something will be too difficult, and quietly remove the possibility before it even exists.

Sometimes the most important thing we can do is simply ask.

This Purim, my son dressed as a businesswoman with a wig and jewellery.

And I was reminded that our children are always more than the stories we tell ourselves about them.

Hula Valley