Really, Do You Know?
People say to me, when I’m telling my life struggles and amazements, “Oh yes, I know.” And what I want to say is “Really? Do you really know?”
Do you know expectations, like those that come home from the hospital with that beautiful babe of what his future holds? Do you know what it is to have those expectations crossed off one by one or all at once, only to have them replaced by new ones? Oh yes, you know expectations, but do you know hope?
Do you know achievements, with all their hard work and determination, big or small or somewhere in between? Do you know what it is to spend hours on each and every baby step? Oh yes, you know achievement, but do you know triumph?
Do you know teachers and aides who give their all every day for the time they are with your child as well as hours after in planning and preparation? Do you know what it is to put 6 hours of effort into 40 minutes of success? Oh yes, you know teachers, but do you know heroes?
Do you know patience, and the endurance of cleaning up spilled milk every day for years and not crying over it, or wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. Do you know what it is after years of getting milk all over your hands to go nine whole days without a single drop of milk getting spilled. Oh yes, you know patience but do you know joy.
Do you know judgement, good or bad, in the looks of others as you help your child navigate his day? Do you know what it is to rise above the scorn and scowls and do what needs to be done when your child is having a “moment”? Oh yes, you know judgement, but do you know strength?
Do you know Christmas, and all its miracles and everything it stands for, or perhaps another holiday held sacred to you? Do you know what it is to almost lose everything, even Christmas, in the blink of an eye, but to have it returned to you? Oh yes, you know Christmas, but do you know gratitude?
Do you know love, and the warm fuzzy feeling that comes with snuggling with your child when he’s getting ready for bed? Do you know what it is to read all the reports, and watch your child “blow it” at another chance at a relationship and significantly impact your relationships as well, and to love him anyway? Oh yes, you know love, but do you know unconditional love?
Do you know serenity, and security in watching your child sleep, knowing they are home in your safe and loving care? Do you know what it is just hours before to have the entire Police Department and all of your friends driving around looking for your child while you pray he’s not broken in the middle of the road? Oh yes, you know serenity, but do you know peace?
Do you know words, and the power of communication and emotion they create, especially those four amazing ones that tug at your heart. “I love you Mommy.” Do you know what it is to wait for years to hear any words and even longer to hear those magic words. Oh yes, you know words, but do you know miracles?
October 18, 2010 by Lily Belland
Do you know expectations, like those that come home from the hospital with that beautiful babe of what his future holds? Do you know what it is to have those expectations crossed off one by one or all at once, only to have them replaced by new ones? Oh yes, you know expectations, but do you know hope?
Do you know achievements, with all their hard work and determination, big or small or somewhere in between? Do you know what it is to spend hours on each and every baby step? Oh yes, you know achievement, but do you know triumph?
Do you know teachers and aides who give their all every day for the time they are with your child as well as hours after in planning and preparation? Do you know what it is to put 6 hours of effort into 40 minutes of success? Oh yes, you know teachers, but do you know heroes?
Do you know patience, and the endurance of cleaning up spilled milk every day for years and not crying over it, or wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. Do you know what it is after years of getting milk all over your hands to go nine whole days without a single drop of milk getting spilled. Oh yes, you know patience but do you know joy.
Do you know judgement, good or bad, in the looks of others as you help your child navigate his day? Do you know what it is to rise above the scorn and scowls and do what needs to be done when your child is having a “moment”? Oh yes, you know judgement, but do you know strength?
Do you know Christmas, and all its miracles and everything it stands for, or perhaps another holiday held sacred to you? Do you know what it is to almost lose everything, even Christmas, in the blink of an eye, but to have it returned to you? Oh yes, you know Christmas, but do you know gratitude?
Do you know love, and the warm fuzzy feeling that comes with snuggling with your child when he’s getting ready for bed? Do you know what it is to read all the reports, and watch your child “blow it” at another chance at a relationship and significantly impact your relationships as well, and to love him anyway? Oh yes, you know love, but do you know unconditional love?
Do you know serenity, and security in watching your child sleep, knowing they are home in your safe and loving care? Do you know what it is just hours before to have the entire Police Department and all of your friends driving around looking for your child while you pray he’s not broken in the middle of the road? Oh yes, you know serenity, but do you know peace?
Do you know words, and the power of communication and emotion they create, especially those four amazing ones that tug at your heart. “I love you Mommy.” Do you know what it is to wait for years to hear any words and even longer to hear those magic words. Oh yes, you know words, but do you know miracles?
October 18, 2010 by Lily Belland
The Orchid
Most children are like dandelions and can grow wherever they may land very easily. They are common and hardy and robust. Other children are like orchids and can only thrive in just the right greenhouse conditions. When they bloom, they are rare, fragile, beautiful, and very special. You are an orchid child, so fortunate to have the right people caring for you. Though you are fragile, you are so very special and it is breath taking to see you bloom.
Some Mothers Get Babies With Something More
Lori Borgman | Monday, May 12, 2002 My friend is expecting her first child. People keep asking what she wants. She smiles demurely, shakes her head and gives the answer mothers have given throughout the ages of time. She says it doesn't matter whether it's a boy or a girl. She just wants it to have ten fingers and ten toes. Of course, that's what she says. That's what mothers have always said. Mothers lie.
Truth be told, every mother wants a whole lot more. Every mother wants a perfectly healthy baby with a round head, rosebud lips, button nose, beautiful eyes and satin skin.
Every mother wants a baby so gorgeous that people will pity the Gerber baby for being flat-out ugly.
Every mother wants a baby that will roll over, sit up and take those first steps right on schedule (according to the baby development chart on page 57, column two).
Every mother wants a baby that can see, hear, run, jump and fire neurons by the billions. She wants a kid that can smack the ball out of the park and do toe points that are the envy of the entire ballet class.
Call it greed if you want, but we mothers want what we want. Some mothers get babies with something more.
Some mothers get babies with conditions they can't pronounce, a spine that didn't fuse, a missing chromosome or a palette that didn't close.
Most of those mothers can remember the time, the place, the shoes they were wearing and the color of the walls in the small, suffocating room where the doctor uttered the words that took their breath away. It felt like recess in the fourth grade when you didn't see the kick ball coming and it knocked the wind clean out of you.
Some mothers leave the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months, even years later, take him in for a routine visit, or schedule her for a well check, and crash head first into a brick wall as they bear the brunt of devastating news. It can't be possible! That doesn't run in our family. Can this really be happening in our lifetime? I am a woman who watches the Olympics for the sheer thrill of seeing finely sculpted bodies. It's not a lust thing; it's a wondrous thing. The athletes appear as specimens without flaw - rippling muscles with nary an ounce of flab or fat, virtual powerhouses of strength with lungs and limbs working in perfect harmony. Then the athlete walks over to a tote bag, rustles through the contents and pulls out an inhaler.
As I've told my own kids, be it on the way to physical therapy after a third knee surgery, or on a trip home from an echo cardiogram, there's no such thing as a perfect body.
Everybody will bear something at some time or another. Maybe the affliction will be apparent to curious eyes, or maybe it will be unseen, quietly treated with trips to the doctor, medication or surgery. The health problems our children have experienced have been minimal and manageable, so I watch with keen interest and great admiration the mothers of children with serious disabilities, and wonder how they do it. Frankly, sometimes you mothers scare me. How you lift that child in and out of a wheelchair 20 times a day.
How you monitor tests, track medications, regulate diet and serve as the gatekeeper to a hundred specialists hammering in your ear.
I wonder how you endure the clichés and the platitudes, well-intentioned souls explaining how God is at work when you've occasionally questioned if God is on strike.
I even wonder how you endure schmaltzy pieces like this one -- saluting you, painting you as hero and saint, when you know you're ordinary. You snap, you bark, you bite. You didn't volunteer for this. You didn't jump up and down in the motherhood line yelling, "Choose me, God! Choose me! I've got what it takes." You're a woman who doesn't have time to step back and put things in perspective, so, please, let me do it for you.
From where I sit, you're way ahead of the pack. You've developed the strength of a draft horse while holding onto the delicacy of a daffodil. You have a heart that melts like chocolate in a glove box in July, carefully counter-balanced against the stubbornness of an Ozark mule.
You can be warm and tender one minute, and when circumstances require intense and aggressive the next. You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a disability.
You're a neighbor, a friend, a stranger I pass at the mall. You're the woman I sit next to at church, my cousin and my sister-in-law.
You're a woman who wanted ten fingers and ten toes, and got something more. You're a wonder.
Truth be told, every mother wants a whole lot more. Every mother wants a perfectly healthy baby with a round head, rosebud lips, button nose, beautiful eyes and satin skin.
Every mother wants a baby so gorgeous that people will pity the Gerber baby for being flat-out ugly.
Every mother wants a baby that will roll over, sit up and take those first steps right on schedule (according to the baby development chart on page 57, column two).
Every mother wants a baby that can see, hear, run, jump and fire neurons by the billions. She wants a kid that can smack the ball out of the park and do toe points that are the envy of the entire ballet class.
Call it greed if you want, but we mothers want what we want. Some mothers get babies with something more.
Some mothers get babies with conditions they can't pronounce, a spine that didn't fuse, a missing chromosome or a palette that didn't close.
Most of those mothers can remember the time, the place, the shoes they were wearing and the color of the walls in the small, suffocating room where the doctor uttered the words that took their breath away. It felt like recess in the fourth grade when you didn't see the kick ball coming and it knocked the wind clean out of you.
Some mothers leave the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months, even years later, take him in for a routine visit, or schedule her for a well check, and crash head first into a brick wall as they bear the brunt of devastating news. It can't be possible! That doesn't run in our family. Can this really be happening in our lifetime? I am a woman who watches the Olympics for the sheer thrill of seeing finely sculpted bodies. It's not a lust thing; it's a wondrous thing. The athletes appear as specimens without flaw - rippling muscles with nary an ounce of flab or fat, virtual powerhouses of strength with lungs and limbs working in perfect harmony. Then the athlete walks over to a tote bag, rustles through the contents and pulls out an inhaler.
As I've told my own kids, be it on the way to physical therapy after a third knee surgery, or on a trip home from an echo cardiogram, there's no such thing as a perfect body.
Everybody will bear something at some time or another. Maybe the affliction will be apparent to curious eyes, or maybe it will be unseen, quietly treated with trips to the doctor, medication or surgery. The health problems our children have experienced have been minimal and manageable, so I watch with keen interest and great admiration the mothers of children with serious disabilities, and wonder how they do it. Frankly, sometimes you mothers scare me. How you lift that child in and out of a wheelchair 20 times a day.
How you monitor tests, track medications, regulate diet and serve as the gatekeeper to a hundred specialists hammering in your ear.
I wonder how you endure the clichés and the platitudes, well-intentioned souls explaining how God is at work when you've occasionally questioned if God is on strike.
I even wonder how you endure schmaltzy pieces like this one -- saluting you, painting you as hero and saint, when you know you're ordinary. You snap, you bark, you bite. You didn't volunteer for this. You didn't jump up and down in the motherhood line yelling, "Choose me, God! Choose me! I've got what it takes." You're a woman who doesn't have time to step back and put things in perspective, so, please, let me do it for you.
From where I sit, you're way ahead of the pack. You've developed the strength of a draft horse while holding onto the delicacy of a daffodil. You have a heart that melts like chocolate in a glove box in July, carefully counter-balanced against the stubbornness of an Ozark mule.
You can be warm and tender one minute, and when circumstances require intense and aggressive the next. You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a disability.
You're a neighbor, a friend, a stranger I pass at the mall. You're the woman I sit next to at church, my cousin and my sister-in-law.
You're a woman who wanted ten fingers and ten toes, and got something more. You're a wonder.
Someone I Love
By Lori Hickman
A touching dedication to special needs children. Someone I love relies on me in ways you will never understand.
Someone I love endures pain and challenges that break my heart and renew my spirit at the same time. Someone I love is unable to advocate for themselves for things that most of us take for granted.
Someone I love will never have the opportunities that every child should have.
Someone I love will need unconditional love and support after I am gone - this frightens me to the core.
Someone I love encounters pity, stereotyping responses, and prejudice at every turn, because they look, act, and/or learn differently than others.
Someone I love has needs that require me to allow "outsiders" to have power and input in areas that should be mine alone to meet.
Someone I love will continue to look to me for everything in life long after other children are able to assume a place as part of the world.
Someone I love has needs that require more time and energy than I have to give.
Someone I love has needs that mean I am not able to meet basic needs of my own.
Someone I love has needs that have become the driving force behind major decisions my family makes.
Someone I love has changed me in ways I will never be able to describe.
Someone I love has taught me about love and about the really important things in life...
And still others don't understand what it is to be me.. they aren't living in my skin
A touching dedication to special needs children. Someone I love relies on me in ways you will never understand.
Someone I love endures pain and challenges that break my heart and renew my spirit at the same time. Someone I love is unable to advocate for themselves for things that most of us take for granted.
Someone I love will never have the opportunities that every child should have.
Someone I love will need unconditional love and support after I am gone - this frightens me to the core.
Someone I love encounters pity, stereotyping responses, and prejudice at every turn, because they look, act, and/or learn differently than others.
Someone I love has needs that require me to allow "outsiders" to have power and input in areas that should be mine alone to meet.
Someone I love will continue to look to me for everything in life long after other children are able to assume a place as part of the world.
Someone I love has needs that require more time and energy than I have to give.
Someone I love has needs that mean I am not able to meet basic needs of my own.
Someone I love has needs that have become the driving force behind major decisions my family makes.
Someone I love has changed me in ways I will never be able to describe.
Someone I love has taught me about love and about the really important things in life...
And still others don't understand what it is to be me.. they aren't living in my skin
You are Strong
by Terry Mauro
How often has it happened -- an acquaintance hears your story or sees your child and says, "I'm not as strong as you. I could never deal with all the things you deal with." And you shake your head modestly, and brush it off, and maybe even feel a little condescended to. But you know what? They're right. You're strong. You're facing things that the average parent doesn't even want to imagine, and you're handling them. Whether you were strong to begin with or had strength thrust upon you by necessity, you're one strong parent, one strong person. Your family needs that strength, your children thrive on it. You may wish you never had to be so strong. But appreciate that strength now. It makes you special. Capable. A force to be reckoned with.
How often has it happened -- an acquaintance hears your story or sees your child and says, "I'm not as strong as you. I could never deal with all the things you deal with." And you shake your head modestly, and brush it off, and maybe even feel a little condescended to. But you know what? They're right. You're strong. You're facing things that the average parent doesn't even want to imagine, and you're handling them. Whether you were strong to begin with or had strength thrust upon you by necessity, you're one strong parent, one strong person. Your family needs that strength, your children thrive on it. You may wish you never had to be so strong. But appreciate that strength now. It makes you special. Capable. A force to be reckoned with.
Welcome to the Club
by Jess May 2009
My dear friend,
I am so sorry for your pain.
Don’t worry; no one else sees it, I promise. To the rest of the world, you’re fine. But when you’ve been there, you can’t miss it.
I see it in your eyes. That awful, combustible mixture of heart-wrenching pain and abject fear. God, I remember the fear.
I see it in the weight of that invisible cloak that you wear. I remember the coarseness of its fabric on my skin. Like raw wool in the middle of the desert. You see, it was mine for a time.
I never would have wanted to pass it on to you, my love. I remember so well suffocating under the weight of it, struggling for breath, fighting to throw it off while wrapping myself in its awful warmth, clutching its worn edges for dear life.
I know that it feels like it’s permanent, fixed. But one day down the line you will wake up and find that you’ve left it next to the bed. Eventually, you’ll hang it in the closet. You’ll visit it now and then. You’ll try it on for size. You’ll run your fingers over the fabric and remember when you lived in it, when it was constant, when you couldn’t take it off and leave it behind. But soon days will go by before you wear it again, then weeks, then months.
I know you are staring down what looks to be an impossibly steep learning curve. I know it looks like an immovable mountain. It is not. I know you don’t believe me, but step by step you will climb until suddenly, without warning, you will look down. You will see how far you’ve come. You’ll breathe. I promise. You might even be able to take in the view.
You will doubt yourself. You won’t trust your instincts right away. You will be afraid that you don’t have the capacity to be what your baby will need you to be. Worse, you’ll think that you don’t even know what she needs you to be. You do. I promise. You will.
When you became a mother, you held that tiny baby girl in your arms and in an instant, she filled your heart. You were overwhelmed with love. The kind of love you never expected. The kind that knocks the wind out of you. The kind of all encompassing love that you think couldn’t possibly leave room for any other. But it did.
When your son was born, you looked into those big blue eyes and he crawled right into your heart. He made room for himself, didn’t he? He carved out a space all his own. Suddenly your heart was just bigger. And then again when your youngest was born. She made herself right at home there too.
That’s how it happens. When you need capacity you find it. Your heart expands. It just does. It’s elastic. I promise.
You are so much stronger than you think you are. Trust me. I know you. Hell, I am you.
You will find people in your life who get it and some that don’t. You’ll find some that want to get it and some that never will. You’ll find a closeness with people you never thought you had anything in common with. You’ll find comfort and relief with friends who speak your new language. You’ll find your village.
You’ll change. One day you’ll notice a shift. You’ll realize that certain words have dropped out of your lexicon. The ones you hadn’t ever thought could be hurtful. Dude, that’s retarded. Never again. You won’t laugh at vulnerability. You’ll see the world through a lens of sensitivity. The people around you will notice. You’ll change them too.
You will learn to ask for help. You’ll have to. It won’t be easy. You’ll forget sometimes. Life will remind you.
You will read more than you can process. You’ll buy books that you can’t handle reading. You’ll feel guilty that they’re sitting by the side of the bed unopened. Take small bites. The information isn’t going anywhere. Let your heart heal. It will. Breathe. You can.
You will blame yourself. You’ll think you missed signs you should have seen. You’ll be convinced that you should have known. That you should have somehow gotten help earlier. You couldn’t have known. Don’t let yourself live there for long.
You will dig deep and find reserves of energy you never would have believed you had. You will run on adrenaline and crash into dreamless sleep. But you will come through it. I swear, you will. You will find a rhythm.
You will neglect yourself. You will suddenly realize that you haven’t stopped moving. You’ve missed the gym. You’ve taken care of everyone but you. You will forget how important it is to take care of yourself. Listen to me. If you hear nothing else, hear this. You MUST take care of yourself. You are no use to anyone unless you are healthy. I mean that holistically, my friend. HEALTHY. Nourished, rested, soul-fed. Your children deserve that example.
A friend will force you to take a walk. You will go outside. You will look at the sky. Follow the clouds upward. Try to find where they end. You’ll need that. You’ll need the air. You’ll need to remember how small we all really are.
You will question your faith. Or find it. Maybe both.
You will never, ever take progress for granted. Every milestone met, no matter what the timing, will be cause for celebration. Every baby step will be a quantum leap. You will find the people who understand that. You will revel in their support and love and shared excitement.
You will encounter people who care for your child in ways that restore your faith in humanity. You will cherish the teachers and therapists and caregivers who see past your child’s challenges and who truly understand her strengths. They will feel like family.
You will examine and re-examine every one of your own insecurities. You will recognize some of your child’s challenges as your own. You will get to know yourself as you get to know your child. You will look to the tools you have used to mitigate your own challenges. You will share them. You will both be better for it.
You will come to understand that there are gifts in all of this. Tolerance, compassion, understanding. Precious, life altering gifts.
You will worry about your other children. You will feel like you’re not giving them enough time. You will find the time. Yes, you will. No, really. You will. You will discover that the time that means something to them is not big. It’s not a trip to the circus. It doesn’t involve planning. It’s free. You will forget the dog and pony shows. Instead, you will find fifteen minutes before bed. You will close the door. You will sit on the floor. You’ll play Barbies with your daughter or Legos with your son. You’ll talk. You’ll listen. You’ll listen some more. You’ll start to believe they’ll be OK. And they will. You will be a better parent for all of it.
You will find the tools that you need. You will take bits and pieces of different theories and practices. You’ll talk to parents and doctors and therapists. You’ll take something from each of them. You’ll even find value in those you don’t agree with at all. Sometimes the most. From the scraps that you gather, you will start to build your child’s quilt. A little of this, a little of that, a lot of love.
You will speak hesitantly at first, but you’ll find your voice. You will come to see that no one knows your child better than you do. You will respectfully listen to the experts in each field. You will value their experience and their knowledge. But you will ultimately remember that while they are the experts in science, you are the expert in your child.
You will think you can’t handle it. You will be wrong.
This is not an easy road, but its rewards are tremendous. It’s joys are the very sweetest of life’s nectar. You will drink them in and taste and smell and feel every last drop of them.
You will be OK.
You will help your sweet girl be far better than OK. You will show her boundless love. She will know that she is accepted and cherished and celebrated for every last morsel of who she is. She will know that her Mama’s there at every turn. She will believe in herself as you believe in her. She will astound you. Over and over and over again. She will teach you far more than you teach her. She will fly.
You will be OK.
And I will be here for you. Every step of the way.
My dear friend,
I am so sorry for your pain.
Don’t worry; no one else sees it, I promise. To the rest of the world, you’re fine. But when you’ve been there, you can’t miss it.
I see it in your eyes. That awful, combustible mixture of heart-wrenching pain and abject fear. God, I remember the fear.
I see it in the weight of that invisible cloak that you wear. I remember the coarseness of its fabric on my skin. Like raw wool in the middle of the desert. You see, it was mine for a time.
I never would have wanted to pass it on to you, my love. I remember so well suffocating under the weight of it, struggling for breath, fighting to throw it off while wrapping myself in its awful warmth, clutching its worn edges for dear life.
I know that it feels like it’s permanent, fixed. But one day down the line you will wake up and find that you’ve left it next to the bed. Eventually, you’ll hang it in the closet. You’ll visit it now and then. You’ll try it on for size. You’ll run your fingers over the fabric and remember when you lived in it, when it was constant, when you couldn’t take it off and leave it behind. But soon days will go by before you wear it again, then weeks, then months.
I know you are staring down what looks to be an impossibly steep learning curve. I know it looks like an immovable mountain. It is not. I know you don’t believe me, but step by step you will climb until suddenly, without warning, you will look down. You will see how far you’ve come. You’ll breathe. I promise. You might even be able to take in the view.
You will doubt yourself. You won’t trust your instincts right away. You will be afraid that you don’t have the capacity to be what your baby will need you to be. Worse, you’ll think that you don’t even know what she needs you to be. You do. I promise. You will.
When you became a mother, you held that tiny baby girl in your arms and in an instant, she filled your heart. You were overwhelmed with love. The kind of love you never expected. The kind that knocks the wind out of you. The kind of all encompassing love that you think couldn’t possibly leave room for any other. But it did.
When your son was born, you looked into those big blue eyes and he crawled right into your heart. He made room for himself, didn’t he? He carved out a space all his own. Suddenly your heart was just bigger. And then again when your youngest was born. She made herself right at home there too.
That’s how it happens. When you need capacity you find it. Your heart expands. It just does. It’s elastic. I promise.
You are so much stronger than you think you are. Trust me. I know you. Hell, I am you.
You will find people in your life who get it and some that don’t. You’ll find some that want to get it and some that never will. You’ll find a closeness with people you never thought you had anything in common with. You’ll find comfort and relief with friends who speak your new language. You’ll find your village.
You’ll change. One day you’ll notice a shift. You’ll realize that certain words have dropped out of your lexicon. The ones you hadn’t ever thought could be hurtful. Dude, that’s retarded. Never again. You won’t laugh at vulnerability. You’ll see the world through a lens of sensitivity. The people around you will notice. You’ll change them too.
You will learn to ask for help. You’ll have to. It won’t be easy. You’ll forget sometimes. Life will remind you.
You will read more than you can process. You’ll buy books that you can’t handle reading. You’ll feel guilty that they’re sitting by the side of the bed unopened. Take small bites. The information isn’t going anywhere. Let your heart heal. It will. Breathe. You can.
You will blame yourself. You’ll think you missed signs you should have seen. You’ll be convinced that you should have known. That you should have somehow gotten help earlier. You couldn’t have known. Don’t let yourself live there for long.
You will dig deep and find reserves of energy you never would have believed you had. You will run on adrenaline and crash into dreamless sleep. But you will come through it. I swear, you will. You will find a rhythm.
You will neglect yourself. You will suddenly realize that you haven’t stopped moving. You’ve missed the gym. You’ve taken care of everyone but you. You will forget how important it is to take care of yourself. Listen to me. If you hear nothing else, hear this. You MUST take care of yourself. You are no use to anyone unless you are healthy. I mean that holistically, my friend. HEALTHY. Nourished, rested, soul-fed. Your children deserve that example.
A friend will force you to take a walk. You will go outside. You will look at the sky. Follow the clouds upward. Try to find where they end. You’ll need that. You’ll need the air. You’ll need to remember how small we all really are.
You will question your faith. Or find it. Maybe both.
You will never, ever take progress for granted. Every milestone met, no matter what the timing, will be cause for celebration. Every baby step will be a quantum leap. You will find the people who understand that. You will revel in their support and love and shared excitement.
You will encounter people who care for your child in ways that restore your faith in humanity. You will cherish the teachers and therapists and caregivers who see past your child’s challenges and who truly understand her strengths. They will feel like family.
You will examine and re-examine every one of your own insecurities. You will recognize some of your child’s challenges as your own. You will get to know yourself as you get to know your child. You will look to the tools you have used to mitigate your own challenges. You will share them. You will both be better for it.
You will come to understand that there are gifts in all of this. Tolerance, compassion, understanding. Precious, life altering gifts.
You will worry about your other children. You will feel like you’re not giving them enough time. You will find the time. Yes, you will. No, really. You will. You will discover that the time that means something to them is not big. It’s not a trip to the circus. It doesn’t involve planning. It’s free. You will forget the dog and pony shows. Instead, you will find fifteen minutes before bed. You will close the door. You will sit on the floor. You’ll play Barbies with your daughter or Legos with your son. You’ll talk. You’ll listen. You’ll listen some more. You’ll start to believe they’ll be OK. And they will. You will be a better parent for all of it.
You will find the tools that you need. You will take bits and pieces of different theories and practices. You’ll talk to parents and doctors and therapists. You’ll take something from each of them. You’ll even find value in those you don’t agree with at all. Sometimes the most. From the scraps that you gather, you will start to build your child’s quilt. A little of this, a little of that, a lot of love.
You will speak hesitantly at first, but you’ll find your voice. You will come to see that no one knows your child better than you do. You will respectfully listen to the experts in each field. You will value their experience and their knowledge. But you will ultimately remember that while they are the experts in science, you are the expert in your child.
You will think you can’t handle it. You will be wrong.
This is not an easy road, but its rewards are tremendous. It’s joys are the very sweetest of life’s nectar. You will drink them in and taste and smell and feel every last drop of them.
You will be OK.
You will help your sweet girl be far better than OK. You will show her boundless love. She will know that she is accepted and cherished and celebrated for every last morsel of who she is. She will know that her Mama’s there at every turn. She will believe in herself as you believe in her. She will astound you. Over and over and over again. She will teach you far more than you teach her. She will fly.
You will be OK.
And I will be here for you. Every step of the way.
Quoted from Hopelights
I am a parent of a child with special needs. Sometimes I cry more than I should. Sometimes I lose my temper when I could have made better choices. But sometimes, oh yes sometimes, I love more than is necessary, give when I don't have enough and overcome the impossible. HOPELights♥