[flickr id=”6650056311″ thumbnail=”small” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”left”]Every day without fail I pull into the parking lot of the elementary school to pick up Angel. At the same time every day I get into line behind the other parents, sometimes even in front of the line.

85% of the time so I don’t feel rushed to shove her in the car and go I end up toward the back of the line. This prime spot affords me a clear view of the area the older kids have their recess in.  It’s mostly parking lot, but to the right there’s a large grassy area with a playground.

Every day in dry weather above freezing they run around like little ants. Hustling and bustling so fast it’s hard to keep track of them. All playing together. Laughing, shouting. Playing tag, pushing each other on the swings. Kicking balls, sliding down the slide. Talking. Laughing. Being with friends.

Except one.

One girl.

My girl.

My beautiful Riley.

Sure she runs.  In circles. Behind the other kids.

Mirroring play.

Never participating in it.

Sometimes walking slow, all by herself. Other times watching, laughing after the joke has passed and the group has moved on. Never right in the moment.

And every time I see it, it breaks my heart.

She loves school.

I have seen in the contained space of the classroom how her friends aide her, pull her in to participate, make sure she is included.

It is only in recess that I see this.

If she feels the pain I do when I see it, she can’t express it.  Or chooses not to.

But I know it’s there.  I know that she will always remember the ‘different’ she felt. I know this, because her dad remembers the same feeling.  The same sense of ‘different’. The same attempts to participate without the sense of how.

It’s something I don’t know how to fix for her. I can’t go to the school and force the kids to make the effort in recess. It’s their wild time, it’s expected to just run free.

But still…

What I wouldn’t give for her to be pulled in to the games. Instead of mirroring, melting in.