The Lost

Scene: Pizza Parlor indoor playground, birthday party.

One toddler, escorted by an older child, returned to her mother, sobbing. "Some girl pushed her down and pulled her hair." A different child cried from the indoor playground, and his mother jumped up to attend. "Now the girl is riding A--," reported the older child.

"Oh, sometimes pretty mean kids come here," said one mother. "Especially in the afternoon when school's out. We don't come here much. Someone's always getting hurt. There are some mean ones."

I sat another moment by the fire and let this all sink in, giving silent empathy to myself and the toddler crying beside me. I was keenly aware that no "answer" arose in me. I felt worried and sad about the language around "mean" and "nice" I was hearing, sad about the violence that had occured, and still I sat, completely blank beyond emotional resonance. It would be easier, I thought, if my moral structure supported me in taking some stand. A clarity of right and wrong that would tell me just what to do and feel. Not that I wished for it. I just noticed the dizzy, confused feeling I had about not understanding on a deeper level what occured, considering it had affected so many at heart. I wanted to contribute and be clearer about my feelings.

I returned to the indoor playground. A group of children and an adult holding a different sobbing toddler stood in a circle. "She did it," several children said over each other, pointing to a girl at one end. "She keeps pulling at people's arms, hitting them and pinching. She sat on him."

The toddler continued to wail unconsolably. His mother held him and shook her head, appearing at a loss. I took a look at the culprit.

Three feet tall with whispy blonde hair and Coke bottle lenses in her wire-framed glasses, this was not your postcard bully. The child's mouth contorted at the edges. I had the sense that she was separate from the group in more ways than one. This was a child who needed and offered more than was expected in the world. I have worked with "special needs" kids enough to see them from a distance. Despite her inability to connect in a meaningful way, this little girl felt the pain that she thought she had caused.

I crossed the circle and sat beside her. "Hi. I'm guessing that you want a friend, too, is that right?"

She nodded. "You didn't want him to cry, huh?"

"Sad," she said.

"Were you really wanting to play, and when you touched him, he cried?" I asked. She nodded.

I offered more words of empathy and gave some silently as well to both the girl child and the toddler. The little girl declined my offer of a lap, but suddenly lay down beside me, her face against the mat, welcoming my hand upon her back. We sat quietly for awhile. Then she stood up. I offered her an example of how I expected the other children would like to be touched. She took it in with large eyes but no words.

I called a couple of the older children down. Trinidad was one. I explained that the girl had trouble connecting with children with her body, but she really wanted to play and be included. Would they be willing to support her by showing her how they wanted to be touched and by staying with her in the climbing structure (the dang thing is too small for adults) so everyone could be safe in their play? Trinidad made a fierce face at me and said, "No," irritated to be interrupted in his focused play. I assured him that I was not making a demand. He looked relieved and ran off. Two older girls with soft eyes said they would be willing. A crowd of smaller children stood around them and heard my explanation of what I guessed had happened in the violent encounters.

"Everyone learns how to connect with their bodies at some point," I said. "She needs a bit of help just now. It's kind of like playing with a puppy." Two children lit up with understanding. "How do puppies play?" I asked.

"They jump and bite!" said a three-year-old girl, smiling broadly.

"That's right. And it takes awhile for you to show them how you want to be touched and played with. They're just trying to connect."

"Yeah, you're right," said a boy. "And she doesn't listen when my Mom tells her." This, I guessed, was the girl's brother. I asked her name, as it came out quite unintelligible to my ear from her own lips. He said her name was M---.

In agreement and good will, the troupe of children climbed back into the plastic tunnels with M-- in tow. She did not grab or pull, but watched them carefully and stayed close. No more cries sounded.

After a quarter of an hour, a woman entered the play area and called to M--. "She's up here!" replied a girl in our group.

My heart leapt to hear that the children had taken her into their group so much as to speak for her. Partly because I did not feel lost anymore -- the path of empathy is always with purpose. Partly because I could see the gift of love and belonging that this little girl received as she was included in play despite the challenges she offered.

And partly because I remember being a lost little girl with Coke bottle lenses.