Wheelchair Bound

  When I was in Kindergarden, my teacher had a difficult time getting me to remain in my wheelchair all day. I was allowed to sit in the chairs at the desk, but I would take advantage of getting out of my wheelchair to run around the classroom.

"You know better than to leave your wheelchair in the hallway," my teacher scolded, after I finally admitted to once again pushing it out of the classroom in the hopes that she'd forget about it.

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," I said, feigning shame. The next day, I hid my wheelchair in the coat closet.

  My teacher shook her head,

"You've given me no choice. I'm going to have a talk with your parents this time."

  That got my attention.

  After school she talked to my mom, who talked to my dad, who surprisingly did not talk to me. It seemed that after a few days I'd escaped punishment, because my parents had taken my side.

  Justice.

  Little did I know that my parents had ordered a clip on tray for my wheelchair so that I would no longer have an excuse to give the teacher so much frustration.

"No, I won't use it!" I protested when my parents presented the plastic table top.

"Young lady, don't give me lip," my mom warned. "You have to stay in your wheelchair at school, and since you won't listen, this is the alternative."

"But I'll be good, I'll listen," I begged and pouted. "Please don't make me use that stupid tray, it bothers!"

  I sat in my wheelchair while my parents adjusted the tray to fit me comfortably, but no matter what they did I protested that it bothered me - that I wouldn't be able to get out of my wheelchair anymore.

  The next day at school was frustrating. I tried to slip out of my wheelchair, but my dad, knowing my Houdini-esque abilities, had made sure there wasn't any wiggle room for me to do so. I endured the rest of the day in my rolling prison - only released with the help of the teacher so that I could use the restroom. I didn't know how to remove the tray and I had pinched my fingers trying.

  Later at home, my brother sat in my wheelchair.

"Can I put the tray on?" he asked, "I want to color and I don't want to sit at the kitchen table."

"Yeah, but it's hard to put on, dad might have to help you," I said.

  My brother picked up the tray and after a couple of adjustments, snapped it in place.

"Wow, can you take it off?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, easily unhooking the clips and removing the tray.

"Show me how to do that!" I begged.

"Okay," my brother said, and proceeded to teach me how to undo the clips.

  It was a little harder for me, because of my weak hands so I had to use two hands on each clip, undoing one at a time. After I had mastered taking the tray off, I gave my brother a big hug.

"Thank you!" I said, excitedly, while he clipped himself back into my wheelchair to color.

  The next day at school, I was in a much better mood. The teacher handed out our Alphabet workbooks. I thought about getting out of my wheelchair and sitting at my desk, just to show her that I could, but then I realized that my tray was wider than the desk and I would have more room for my workbook. So I sat in my wheelchair and did my work.

  When art time came, I discovered once again the benefits of using the tray. The same followed for lunch. Suddenly, I was happy to have the tray. I now had my own space to eat, read, draw and I didn't have to share my crayons, a major bonus for me.

"You seem to be in a better mood today," my teacher noted.

"I am," I said, "My brother showed me how to take the tray off, but you don't have to worry, I like it now."

"Well I am certainly glad," the teacher said. "You're a smart girl. I know that nothing can hold you back, even that tray."