As a tot, Jon never really played with toys, especially plush toys or dolls. There were a couple of reasons, but the most obvious relates to the nature of visual impairment itself: dolls and plush toys are visual representations of people or animals. Without the visual, they are entirely unrelated. Plush toys are weird pillows, plastic figurines are just oddly-shaped plastic.

Even as he slowly gained vision, Jon didn’t show much interest in toy cars or trucks, even as just as fun toys. For some reason, imaginative play was a lot of work, something he could do for only a few minutes, and with little interest. He did take to toys that taught letters and numbers, but nothing cuddly, nothing that took on a life of it’s own.

But in the past half year, Jon has suddenly taken to his Pumbaa (the warthog from The Lion King) doll, and it goes to bed with him pretty much nightly. I am expected to say goodnight to Pumbaa, sometimes kiss Pumbaa, and sometimes, Pumbaa says goodnight to me (with Jon shaking the large doll so that his snout flops up and down). Jon has also taken to “flying” Pumbaa, re-enacting what he and I do a minute or two before (before bed, Jon flies by lying horizontally in my arms, and I spin until we both get dizzy). This new bond is more subtle than strong, but it’s nice to see it arrive.

Jon’s teacher got wind of his transitional object, and invited Pumbaa to school so that he could meet some of the other dolls–and hopefully some of the magic would rub off on them (in teacher talk it’s called tranference). Jon and Pumbaa struck up a friendship with Puppy, so after a day with Puppy at school, Puppy came to our house for a sleepover.

The Three Amigos

Jon’s teacher just phoned in with a tale of Jon’s day. Usually she sends it home in a book that we exchange news and notices in, but today demanded a phone call.

He got 100% on his spelling and reading tests, and has moved on to the next book and typing list. Super.

But wait, there’s more. Jon called for a bathroom visit (known as “Health Care” at the school) just before lunch, and since he was there while the rest of the school stampeded–well, mostly roll-peded– to the cafeteria, the school halls were like a ghost town. His teacher decided that now would be a good time for someone to practice wheeling his own chair.

Now, Jon is not known for wheeling. He refuses to do it for us and will do little practice at school, but has been observed to do it from time to time in cases of extreme–um– desire. One of our first visits to the wheelchair clinic saw Jon, bored with the discussion, wheel towards an unexplored exit by expertly slaloming around a number of people and two wheelchairs parked in the centre of the room. Many slack jaws. The other night at a booklaunch he suddenly pulled a 180 on Mom and headed for the door, perfectly aligned. There was the time at school when he and a classmate “disappeared”…but I digress.

Anyway, today was practice. Jon slowly made it to the cafeteria under the heavy encouragement . He made it and dug into a big lunch. And given that they were late for lunch, the teacher allowed him to stay a little later…meaning the halls were once again clear! And off they went to the library, about another 80 yards away. After library, hey! The halls were clear again. Jon wheeled back to class, at the far end of the hallway, looking a wee bit tired.

Today was Picture Day, and just as he arrived at the classroom, the class got the call to go for their photos, in the enclosed courtyard all the way back near the library. The teacher swung Jon’s chair back around, facing the long hallway. At which point Jon looked up and groaned “Oh god.”

His first epithet. (At which point they reassured him that they’d push, he didn’t have to do it again.)

This week Jon’s teacher has been sending him home with copy-typing exercises: A list of 10 words to be read out loud, for Jon to spell and type out on the keyboard.

The first word: “the”. First Jon sneers (and types) “T—H—O“, and later on, “Z—H—E”, adding “It’s a silent ‘Z’!” He makes sure he pronounces it “zee”, because he knows it bugs the hell out of mom and dad. Every single word on the list is mangled in this obstreperous fashion.

The next day Jon’s told that if he messes up the words on purpose again, he won’t get a particular bedtime privilege. When I read out “the” Jon sullenly says “T—H—O“, but this time types it out correctly. Almost every word is spelled incorrectly aloud, but all are typed out just fine. He knows for damn sure what he can get away with!

What kind of wiseacre are we raising?