"Mommy, that man ..."
I am sitting beside Ruby and Sadie, with Joe on the other side. I had been put in charge, for a few minutes as things got organised, of Ruby's movie snack. With my popcorn in one hand and her combo of a frozen blue drink, popcorn and a Kinder chocolate egg in the other I looked like a concession stand all on my own. Sadie had dropped her egg so Ruby was assisting in the search as I guarded over her stuff.
Then I heard the little voice from the seat behind us, "Mommy, that man ..."
A tense "shhhhhhhh" attempted to hush a child that wouldn't be hushed. Again, "Mommy, that man ..." I didn't have to turn to know that she was pointing at me when she spoke.
Mom whispered to her, "Yes, I can see he is in a wheelchair."
"No," the little voice growing more insistent, "that man ..."
"But mommy, that man ..."
Mom more forcefully now, "I can see he's really big, now let's talk about something else. What's happening at school tomorrow."
"No!, Mommy that man ..." she pauses waiting for her mother to hush her, Mom by now has given up. She continues, "that man lets those little girls have chocolate eggs."
Sometimes what makes me different, it seems, isn't always the obvious.