He Doesn’t Peel My Grapes, And Other Accessibility Interestingness

And so, Isla has this thing where she holds doors open for me. I don’t make her do it, she just does.

On a recent family road trip, after a coffee run with friends, Isla was there at the door, on her mission.

A stranger comes along and pulls the door wider. Isla stumbles back, but not that far, still looking at me. Takes up her space between me, the door, and the stranger.

And then the stranger says to my five-year-old, who has the same nose-wrinkle when we make our famous disgruntled face, this stranger says: Move away from the wheelchair lady.

Now. A few things.

Please don’t talk to my child using baby-talk. Even when she was a baby, we didn’t use baby-talk.

Don’t come up to my child on a mission already; decide to ‘help’ and make her trip over.

Stranger, don’t expect my child to listen to you. I have taught my child to be kind, but she doesn’t have to listen to strangers.

Especially those who suggest she move away from her parents.

Especially those who assume that the wheelchair lady cannot possibly be one of her parents. Sitting right there. Using my chair. To push through a door that you are blocking.

Hi. I’m her mother.

‘She’s not moving anywhere for you,’ I said. At the same time, Isla said, ‘That’s my Mum.’

Now. A few more things.

We have graduated from Mumma to Mum. Sometimes. Mostly when she is exasperated with me. Or strangers.

This whole exchange lasted 7 seconds, and the nose-wrinkle came out on both of us as we walked away.

That’s another thing. I am a wheelchair user who doesn’t walk. I will tell you I drive to get around. But I don’t get mad if someone suggests I’ve walked somewhere. You don’t have to say I rolled.

And no, I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket. And sometimes Isla and I do have races, but not because strangers have made a clever suggestion that we do.

I was watching this TED Talk from Kara Ayers about disabled parenting in an ableist world, and saying YES! to all of it.

Like the stranger at the door, and in line at the bathroom asking my child where her mother is. Right there, she says.

Like the guy who took the back of my chair to push me up a hill. Leaving my husband at the bottom of the hill.

Because why wasn’t my brother helping me?

Well.

And when my husband does help me, like cutting food in a restaurant, we got looks.

Now. I can’t cut food. It ends up on the floor. When I try to cut food, I also end up cutting myself.

Sometimes I order food that you don’t have to cut. I like nachos, and conveniently don’t have to share them with my cheese-phobic husband.

Anyway, that’s fine. But sometimes you have to eat the steak. Which Neil cuts for me.

And sometimes the looks come with a question: Does he peel your grapes, too?

No. Worry about your own food.

I can do my own thing, and when I need extra help Isla is good at advocating for my needs.

She doesn’t have to, but she wants to help where she can. She’s five, but she already holds the door.

And there are times when we can’t find an accessible park or beach to play in as a family. That’s fine, I can read my book.

When we get home, Isla and I can watch movies together or a new/old favorite, play video games. She’s sitting, I’m sitting. We’re communicating. Take this recent heart-warming and very us conversation:

Isla: Dude, you should go back to the training level, you’re not very good at this game.

Me: I got years on you, never mind.

Not unlike other families.

What accessibility interestingness have you dealt with lately?