My mental development is that of a five-year-old. It’s a harsh realization, but sometimes when I see children squabble I think that I’m not all that much different, I just hide it a little better.

We all know the scenario: One child steals a toy from another, a fight ensues, a parent removes the obviously offending toy, and both kids go away mad. I might be able to hide my disappointment, and I can suppress the urge to steal someone else’s toy, but how often do I feel like there’s an obvious loser in these situations and why do I keep thinking about the airline ticket desk, where it definitely doesn’t serve to yell the loudest as much as it might feel really good since someone should be responsible?

My friend Donna told me that kids need words. They need a script. They don’t just know these things. “Can I play with that toy?” “Not now, I’m playing with it, but you can have it in 10 minutes.”

You mean everyone stays happy? Talk about revolutionary.

Yes, it sounds simple, but simple is the best kind of revolution. It’s the kind of revolution that succeeds. Those complicated ones never take. But using your words, creating a script – could they work for me? I’m climbing to the top of the tallest mountain in Africa in the hopes that people will see me, that they’ll get the script, but maybe I need to do more.

But why do people need a script? The need became obvious after I had two disappointing, yet far too common, interactions at a recent Christmas party.

First, a woman told me that I should meet her nephew, who is in a wheelchair, too. My immediate thought was that we didn’t choose this situation, and most likely don’t share that much in common. We’re not like my childhood best friend’s father, who drove a BMW and waved at all the other BMW drivers. They’d made a choice we hadn’t. In fact, I probably share more with most of my able-bodied friends than I do with the vast majority of disabled people because we’re all something else first. We’re white, black, Hispanic, Asian, rich, poor, middleclass, educated, uneducated, active, inactive, artistic, inartistic, etc. I shared a lot in common with my former disabled teammates and competitors, but with most disabled people, I only share the fact that we each had an unfortunate moment in time, a greater collection of scars than most and general rejection from health insurance companies.

So this woman thought that her nephew and I would have something in common. That really isn’t a huge stretch. This guy sounded active, but then she compared his wife to Ruth from the Bible’s Old Testament, and talked about the patience of Ruth and how her nephew’s wife had to endure such hardships. The woman dumbfounded me and insulted my friend, who had invited me to the party and stood by during the conversation, but many share the woman’s assumptions.

The next guy approached me as I hoped to leave for the night. My departure seemed to ratchet toward the exit, moving two rooms forward and one back. He found me in the piano room where the kids were playing remarkably well. Without preamble he said, “What happened to you?” I explained that I’d had a freak skiing accident almost 20 years ago. I hoped the “almost 20 years ago part” would set him at ease because he shifted, stammered and couldn’t look me in the eye. It didn’t. He said, “That was really hard for me.” I didn’t know how to respond. Did I need to tell him that it was okay? Did I need to tell him that I was okay?

The script surrounds us, but it might not be the accurate script. And people might continue reading from that same bad script unless provided a new one.

Driving down the highway during a quick trip to Montana last week, I saw a billboard with a policeman standing with his hand on the push handle of a wheelchair and the statement: “Think seatbelts are confining? Try a wheelchair. Buckle up.” Obviously buckling up is a good idea. I support seat belts, but the billboard message perpetuates the existing script that made it so difficult for the guy at the party to approach me: Life in a wheelchair is so confining it’s worse than death, which after all is the biggest worry when you don’t wear your seatbelt.

My challenge lies in replacing the script. The billboard states that the wheelchair is the end. Both people at the party were reading from that same old script. Adopting the new script proves difficult because that obvious question, the one you’re not supposed to ask, rattles around in your head. It’s right there begging for attention and the more you try to ignore it the more you fear it will just slip out.

I know because I’ve been there.

A few years ago, I shared the gym on a quiet Sunday with a woman who walked on two prosthetic legs. I wondered if she lost her legs to frostbite because at the time I was reading a book about Hugh Herr, who lost his legs to frostbite after being trapped on the side of a mountain. But as much as I knew I couldn’t ask that question, it was all I could contemplate. So, I’m stuck in my own head when she walks by, deliberately heel-toe, on her black and grey weave, carbon fiber legs. She looks down at me lying on the bench and says, “That’s a lot of weight.” Ahh, a compliment, that’s a good way to start a conversation, but those thoughts rattled in my head. I could only muster, “Umm, thank you.” Brilliant. I am a heck of a conversationalist.

So what’s the end result? Like many things, adopting a new script is easier for kids, because they don’t need to forget the old one. We should follow their model. They ask whatever questions, and they want answers. Questions are good. They represent interest – as long as we forget the old script.

But what does the new script say? Think like a child. What do you like to do? Who are your friends? Want to play? Maybe having the mental development of a five-year-old isn’t such a bad thing after all.