Evelyn,

Last week you came home with a piece of paper titled, “You in a Box”.  It asked for things like a sample of your handwriting.  But you don’t have handwriting.  It asked for the box top of your favorite cereal.  You don’t eat cereal.  It asked for a small treasure that you keep in your room.  You don’t keep treasures in your room.

You in a box.  I ignored you in a box.
I got a reminder note about you in a box from your para Friday.
I ignored it again.

I can’t put you in a box.  You spend too much time in the boxes of other people’s making. I’m your mama and I won’t make another one for you.  Another one which you don’t design.

You’re nine years old
In the 4th grade
You’re my first true love
You love Apple products
And Sesame Street
You find shelter IN the wind and rain-not from it
You’re a mermaid living on land
You put your face in fountains
And a trail of blueberries and corn follow you in the summer
You’ve endured
Medical Trauma
Stigmatization
Dehumanization
The presumption of your incompetence
You love your mama and cake
You love your daddy and flinging spaghetti
You love your sister and grilled cheese
You love MaryKate and Cody’s restaurant
You love Heather and hotels
You’re untamed and true
You love shiny surfaces and bubble wrap
You dig in potted plants and sneak icecream
You have wild hair and hate having your head touched
You’re the bravest person I know
And you still climb into my lap
You have beautiful flappy hands
You’re a daredevil
You don’t take shit from anyone
You ‘re my navigator
You’re able
You’re disabled
You’re mischievous
You’re stubborn
You’re non-compliant
You’re perfect
Your sister uses her birthday wishes for you
Because you’re so incredibly loved
Because you’re so incredibly you
You love peanut butter, clementines, and pears
You love to order room service
These are some of the things I know about you
There’s even more that I don’t
Your needs and wants seem small and simple
But you?
You’re big and complex.
And I have way too much respect for all the things that make you, you
For me to even consider presuming that I can speak for you
For your identity
By taking a bunch of objects of my choosing
Cramming them in a shoebox
And calling them, “You.”
No.