The Spark: A Mother's Story of Nurturing Genius by Kristine Barnett Page B
Authors: Kristine Barnett
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whether I was going to sit up and rein her in. But I kept my eyes closed and a slight smileon my face, and as she built up steam and the story began to twist and turn, she forgot to worry about what I thought.
The story Jenny spun for me was filled with magic and monsters, wild adventures and terrible misfortunes. There were double-crossing villains, misunderstandings with dreadful consequences, and, of course, true love. In ten minutes, Jenny created a world so elaborately fantastic and yet so convincing that it was almost a shock to open my eyes and find myself back in my own living room, with CNN on mute and Michael’s cold toast still on the sideboard.
I had been recording Jenny’s story on my phone, and that night I typed it into the computer. Before I hit Print, I went into the craft closet and found a few sheets of creamy, luxurious heavyweight bond paper I was saving for a special occasion. I wrote Jenny’s name on the cover page in calligraphy, punched three holes along one edge, and bound the “book” with gold satin ribbon left over from a Christmas present. The next day, when she came in, I said, “I wanted to thank you for the story you told me yesterday. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so I made it into this book.”
I didn’t have any trouble getting Jenny to put her shoes on after that. Each day that summer, I brought her a picture I’d found—a page I’d torn out of a magazine, a photo I’d taken of something I thought might pique her interest, or an illustration from a book—and she’d tell me a story. Her talent blossomed, and after her mother learned to see Jenny’s storytelling as a gift instead of an impediment, there were no more behavioral issues at home. All it took was a little encouragement and the ability to recognize this precious talent for what it was.
Knowing that the parents felt that my humble daycare had had a profound impact on their children’s abilities and accomplishments later in life was really exciting for me. I had believed for years that any child will outperform your expectations if you can find a way to feed his or her passion. Every story like Lauren’s, Elliott’s, Jenny’s, and Claire’s fueled my belief that this approach could have the same impact on kids with special needs as it had on all the typical kids I’dworked with over the years. Those powerful examples were in my mind as I set out to help the Little Light kids get into mainstream kindergarten.
Every one of the children at Little Light who had been labeled a “lost cause” had some subject area (often quite a few!) that engaged him or her passionately. I just needed to find the proper lens to magnify it, just as I had done with the daycare kids. That concept was the inspiration for the charity’s name. I was going to find the little light inside each of these children, and we were going to let it shine.
Very often these special gifts were the first things the parents said about their child when they brought him or her to Little Light: “Oh, Billy knows the earned run average of every pitcher in the major leagues,” or “I hope you don’t mind if Violet keeps her wings on; she loves butterflies!” But while the parents might have recognized their child’s talent or passion, they didn’t necessarily think of it as a way to connect with him or her or to advance the child’s progress.
Meaghan loved anything that engaged her senses. She’d bury her face in the laundry I pulled out of the dryer and loved to pet the supersoft blanket I kept draped over the couch. How could I use touch to draw her out? I thought of where baking had taken Lauren, and so I led Meaghan into the kitchen. Despite having an IQ of only 50, she’d measure the ingredients for homemade play dough along with me and then play with the huge mass we made while it was still warm to the touch. Then we’d go together to choose a cookie cutter from the two hundred I keep in a deep drawer in my kitchen. She’d
The story Jenny spun for me was filled with magic and monsters, wild adventures and terrible misfortunes. There were double-crossing villains, misunderstandings with dreadful consequences, and, of course, true love. In ten minutes, Jenny created a world so elaborately fantastic and yet so convincing that it was almost a shock to open my eyes and find myself back in my own living room, with CNN on mute and Michael’s cold toast still on the sideboard.
I had been recording Jenny’s story on my phone, and that night I typed it into the computer. Before I hit Print, I went into the craft closet and found a few sheets of creamy, luxurious heavyweight bond paper I was saving for a special occasion. I wrote Jenny’s name on the cover page in calligraphy, punched three holes along one edge, and bound the “book” with gold satin ribbon left over from a Christmas present. The next day, when she came in, I said, “I wanted to thank you for the story you told me yesterday. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so I made it into this book.”
I didn’t have any trouble getting Jenny to put her shoes on after that. Each day that summer, I brought her a picture I’d found—a page I’d torn out of a magazine, a photo I’d taken of something I thought might pique her interest, or an illustration from a book—and she’d tell me a story. Her talent blossomed, and after her mother learned to see Jenny’s storytelling as a gift instead of an impediment, there were no more behavioral issues at home. All it took was a little encouragement and the ability to recognize this precious talent for what it was.
Knowing that the parents felt that my humble daycare had had a profound impact on their children’s abilities and accomplishments later in life was really exciting for me. I had believed for years that any child will outperform your expectations if you can find a way to feed his or her passion. Every story like Lauren’s, Elliott’s, Jenny’s, and Claire’s fueled my belief that this approach could have the same impact on kids with special needs as it had on all the typical kids I’dworked with over the years. Those powerful examples were in my mind as I set out to help the Little Light kids get into mainstream kindergarten.
Every one of the children at Little Light who had been labeled a “lost cause” had some subject area (often quite a few!) that engaged him or her passionately. I just needed to find the proper lens to magnify it, just as I had done with the daycare kids. That concept was the inspiration for the charity’s name. I was going to find the little light inside each of these children, and we were going to let it shine.
Very often these special gifts were the first things the parents said about their child when they brought him or her to Little Light: “Oh, Billy knows the earned run average of every pitcher in the major leagues,” or “I hope you don’t mind if Violet keeps her wings on; she loves butterflies!” But while the parents might have recognized their child’s talent or passion, they didn’t necessarily think of it as a way to connect with him or her or to advance the child’s progress.
Meaghan loved anything that engaged her senses. She’d bury her face in the laundry I pulled out of the dryer and loved to pet the supersoft blanket I kept draped over the couch. How could I use touch to draw her out? I thought of where baking had taken Lauren, and so I led Meaghan into the kitchen. Despite having an IQ of only 50, she’d measure the ingredients for homemade play dough along with me and then play with the huge mass we made while it was still warm to the touch. Then we’d go together to choose a cookie cutter from the two hundred I keep in a deep drawer in my kitchen. She’d
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