I didn`t cry when I learned I was the parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and didn`t say anything while my husband and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was - as we suspected - retarded.
　　"Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly. "Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties."
　　Serious difficulties notwithstanding, I couldn`t cry then nor during the months that followed.
　　When Kristi was old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood school`s kindergarten at age seven.
　　It would have been comforting to cry the day I left her in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds.Kristi had spent hour upon hour playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the "different" child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever known.
　　However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school, and to her schoolmates, too. When boasting of their own accomplishments, Kristi`s classmates always took pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got all her spelling words right today." No one bothered to add that her spelling list was easier than anyone else`s.
　　During Kristi`s second year in school, she faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event of the term was a competition based on a culmination of the year`s music and physical education activities. Kristi was way behind in both　music and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded the day as well.
　　On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick. Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a gymnasium filled with parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn`t matter. But my conscience wouldn`t let me off