As children go back to school we grandparents are no doubt happy we no longer need to help them with homework or advise how best to complete an assignment on the child's laptop.
Fortunately, most parents are technologically equipped to handle most of those duties. The best help I can be, it seems, is to offer a ride home from school when the parent has a conflict. Even then, the biggest assistance I can provide is to suggest a cold drink or snack for the ride home. My treat, of course.
At this point, only two of my four grandchildren are in school full-time. One is a fifth grader, another is in high school and the other two are both under the age of five.
The fifth grader, Olivia, is the only girl. She is a spitfire who holds her own with her big brother. She has a sweet singing voice, but will dive on the floor for a volleyball at a moment's notice.
She was born with an autoimmune disease that still has no cure. It's called alopecia areata universalis. The disease affects the hair follicles, causing hair loss.
Sticks and stones
We all know how mean and cruel kids can be to each other. Though Olivia has never mentioned much about that to me, I have to believe she's experienced some hurtful comments.
She's not bald at the moment, but she was a year ago or so. At times, she has worn a wig and sometimes a hat. The hair loss can come and go. There are medications, but no cure.
At the moment, she has flowing, blond hair that is long enough to put in a ponytail. I remember how excited she was when it grew long enough for that to happen.
There are nearly seven million people in the U.S. with this particular issue. Twenty percent are children.
I'm not sure how I'd react if I were forced to face something so critical to my appearance at such an early age. I admire her spunk and self-confidence. When she had no hair, she endured a fair amount of scrutiny. Some people thought she was a cancer patient.
A discovery moment
As a grandfather, there's an innate desire to protect and defend her from those who might criticize, sympathize or wrongly analyze. It took a dance recital to bring it all into focus for me.
Olivia was scheduled to perform on stage with other girls at the Sottile Theatre on George Street. Her performance would not involve ballet, tap or modern dance. She performed in only one genre, a hip-hop number.
While waiting in the audience, I kept wondering to myself if she would wear a wig, a hat or maybe a scarf atop her then-hairless head. Any of those options would have been understandable and appropriate.
When she bounced onto that stage, her little bald head was on full display in the front row of dancers. She was full of attitude and confidence and I was so choked-up with pride that I had to wipe some tears from my face so I could fully appreciate the energetic routine.
She was just fine with who she was. Kids are so resilient at times. It's the grown-ups that need perspective.
I tried to communicate with her afterwards how proud I was of her dancing and her spirit. She thanked me, then skipped away just like any little girl should after a virtuoso performance.