a true story about belonging
The Only Kid in Costume
She's the only one in a costume, and that proud grin folds up right in front of me.
the realization
I couldn't make the room match her, and covering her up only told her she was right to hide. So instead of erasing what set her apart, I joined it. If she was going to be dressed wrong, she wasn't going to be the only one.
She walked in so proud. The felt tail, the whole thing, she'd picked it herself. And then she stopped. Every other kid was in regular clothes. I watched the grin fold right off her face. She grabbed the tail and pulled it close like she could tuck herself behind it, and she said she wanted to go home.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did the thing I always do. I rushed. Nobody's looking, baby, here, let me put my jacket over it. And the more I covered her, the smaller she got. I was trying to make her disappear a little, and she felt it.
So I stopped covering. I crouched down and said everybody looks different than you today, and you noticed, and it made your tummy feel funny, huh. She didn't say anything, but she looked at me. Really looked.
I didn't swap her costume out. I pulled off my cardigan and tied it around my neck like a cape. Now there were two of us dressed wrong. Her shoulders came down. Her hand found mine. And we walked in together, both of us ridiculous, both of us fine.
what I found myself saying
"Nobody's looking, baby (I said it, and it only made her smaller)."
"Everybody looks different than you today. And you noticed."
"Made your tummy feel funny, huh. So I unzipped mine."
