Inclusive Parenting: Why It Matters, and Why It's Hard.

Inclusion is most typically used as an educational term, meaning that a child with special needs is included in the classroom with their typical peers as much as possible.  While an inclusive environment for education is important to me for Marshall, my biggest passion is for a globally inclusive parenting model.

Wes and I have always had a general stance of inclusion until it doesn’t make sense.  That’s the basic umbrella that we operate under, knowing that each and every circumstance will vary.  Our choices for including Marshall with his peers are much broader than just education; we consider sports, music, dance, church, birthday parties, sporting events, etc. 

Here’s the truth: lurking in that list above are things that we have not chosen inclusion for, for various reasons, in various seasons.  Inclusion is not an all-or-nothing, now or never principle—it’s an ideal scenario when all the proper factors are in place. 

Yes, there will be times when Marshall cannot participate with his peers, but we try our hardest to include him in as many events as possible, no matter how difficult the preparation and legwork may be.  When I picture planning ahead for an inclusive activity with Marshall, the closest visual that comes to mind is one of those crime shows where the detectives carefully search every corner of a dark building, guns drawn, looking for the enemy behind every corner.  When you have a child with special needs, it is hard work to anticipate what might upset your child, what loud noises could occur, what food may be served, how others may interact with him, what order of events to expect, any special attire to be worn, etc.   Not only do you have to think through each potential factor, but there has to be a plan in place ahead of time—is there a place we could take a break if needed?  How important is this event in the grand scheme of things—how long do we need to stay if he’s upset or uncomfortable? 

One of our first experiences with inclusion was memorable: three-year-old soccer.  We had several friends with kids on the team, we knew it would be low key, and we went into it knowing that the sun would not rise or set on Marshall’s success in preschool soccer.  However, the experience had little to do with physical skills, in our case.  The experience was about being around other kids in a different setting, observing appropriate physical boundaries, wearing clothes he wasn’t used to (shin guards and tall socks), etc. 

The very first practice was a nightmare, and we both questioned our decision to even sign him up.  Marshall spent the entire practice on my lap, crying for most of it.  We agreed to give it one more try—if the second attempt was just as upsetting to him, we would let it go and move on.  We talked to him about it afterwards, and the second time around, Marshall knew what to expect.  He knew it would be loud.  He knew it would be chaotic.  He knew there would be a lot of movement.  And our second attempt was tear free.  Now, granted, that first season he didn’t follow the directions for the drills or stay with his teammates, or even kick the ball much—but he was happy, he was there, and he was soaking in what his peers were doing. 

He continued to “play” soccer a few more seasons, and our goal for him was to stay on the field within the white lines.  It took time, practice, reminders, reinforcements, and a stuffed dinosaur that he carried with him on the field, but he did it.  The blood, sweat and tears that we put into that inclusive experience was well worth it—Marshall spent time with his peers and learned a valuable lesson-- how to observe a physical boundary and not run away in open spaces. 

This past summer was our first summer in a new town.  I signed Marshall up for t-ball not only as an inclusive, active experience with peers, but also as a way to meet people in a new town.  At times, our inclusive model of parenting is not just for Marshall’s benefit; it’s for our own benefit too.  Where else will I meet other parents if I don’t stick my neck out and go where the people are?  I did my usual legwork; I called ahead and asked for details about the structure of the first practice, talked Marshall through as much as I could, and enlisted a dear friend and her daughters to come with me and help wrangle Joey.  It was a lovely experience—that first day my friend’s daughter went out on the field with him and helped him participate while I stood back and watched, and once he learned the routine he was able to stay on the field without any assistance.  I met my very first friend in a new town through t-ball, and we’ve been running buddies every since.  Marshall had a blast drawing in the dirt while his peers waited to field the ball, and even wore the big batting helmet and took his turn at bat each time.  T-ball was a success because my expectations were appropriate (I wasn’t upset that he wasn’t doing all the things his peers were doing) and it was run very well by an energetic and engaged group of young adults. 

More recently, Marshall was invited to a bowling party by a classmate from school.  He had never been bowling, so we went bowling as a family the week before the party as a trial run.  Marshall loved it, and had a reference point for what to expect when he and Wes went to the party.  Truly, that was one of the easier prep jobs—all we had to do ahead of time was go bowling, talk about what to expect, and take an appropriate treat for Marshall to have when the others ate cake.  (Marshall has some dietary restrictions— our choice, not true allergies-- more on that later.)

This is our norm.  Now, if I’m being honest, the easiest thing would be to decline the birthday parties, never sign up for sports, and move on.  Marshall would not be upset, he is unlikely to be a professional athlete, and we could spend our time doing things that would be much easier for everyone involved.  But, for us, the uphill climb of parenting as inclusively as we can means taking every opportunity to allow Marshall to enjoy the same social events as his peers. 

Not all events have gone so smoothly, either—even with all the prep work.  This past winter, we learned that Marshall can tolerate a college basketball game on a Saturday afternoon, at least until half time—but he cannot handle it on a weeknight, having already used all his energy to hold it together through school and any therapy or lessons we may have had.  The formula of preparation is not a guarantee—just an exhausting reality of parenting that is 100% worth it when it works.

In our limited experience with inclusive parenting, I have learned this: it is no one else’s job to include Marshall—the responsibility falls on Wes and I.  Sure, if there are things an organization or coach can do to help us, we will ask for them when it’s appropriate; but the choice to include our kid is the uphill, swim upstream, absolute right choice for us as his parents.  We cannot expect others to know him well enough to invite him and anticipate his needs— it’s up to us to take the invitations we’re given and do everything we can to set him up for success.  It is overwhelming, expensive, exhausting and sometimes unsuccessful, but I firmly believe the road to who Marshall will grow up to be is paved on each of these curves we choose to take.