(no subject)
Expectant mothers waiting for a newborn's arrival say they don't care
what sex the baby is. They just want it to have ten fingers and ten
toes.
Mothers lie.
Every mother wants so much more. She wants a perfectly healthy baby
with a round head, rosebud lips, button nose, beautiful eyes and satin
skin. She wants a baby so gorgeous that people will pity the Gerber baby
for being flat-out ugly.
She 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 a mother wants what a mother wants. Some
mothers
get babies with something more.
Maybe you're one who got a baby with a condition you couldn't
pronounce, a spine that didn't fuse, a missing chromosome or a palette that
didn't close. The doctor's words took your breath away.
It was just like the time at recess in the fourth grade when you didn't
see the kick ball coming and it knocked the wind right out of you.
Some of you left the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months, even
years later, took him in for a routine visit, or scheduled her for a
well check, and crashed head first into a brick wall as you
bore the brunt of devastating news.
It didn't seem possible. That didn't run in your family. Could this
really be happening in your lifetime?
I watch the Olympics for the sheer thrill of seeing finely sculpted
bodies. It's not a lust thing; it's a wondrous thing. They appear as
specimens without flaw -- muscles, strength and coordination all
working in perfect harmony.
Then an athlete walks over to a tote bag, rustles through the
contents and pulls out an inhaler.
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, therapy or surgery. Mothers of
children with disabilities live the limitations with them.
Frankly, I don't know how you do it. Sometimes you mothers scare me.
How you lift that kid in and out of the wheelchair twenty times a day.
How you monitor tests, track medications, and serve as the
gatekeeper to a hundred specialists yammering in your ear.
I wonder how you endure the clichs and the platitudes, the 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 columns 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 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, counter-balanced against the
stubbornness of an Ozark mule.
You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a
disability. You're a daughter, neighbor, a friend, a woman I pass at church and
my sister-in-law. You're a wonder.
what sex the baby is. They just want it to have ten fingers and ten
toes.
Mothers lie.
Every mother wants so much more. She wants a perfectly healthy baby
with a round head, rosebud lips, button nose, beautiful eyes and satin
skin. She wants a baby so gorgeous that people will pity the Gerber baby
for being flat-out ugly.
She 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 a mother wants what a mother wants. Some
mothers
get babies with something more.
Maybe you're one who got a baby with a condition you couldn't
pronounce, a spine that didn't fuse, a missing chromosome or a palette that
didn't close. The doctor's words took your breath away.
It was just like the time at recess in the fourth grade when you didn't
see the kick ball coming and it knocked the wind right out of you.
Some of you left the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months, even
years later, took him in for a routine visit, or scheduled her for a
well check, and crashed head first into a brick wall as you
bore the brunt of devastating news.
It didn't seem possible. That didn't run in your family. Could this
really be happening in your lifetime?
I watch the Olympics for the sheer thrill of seeing finely sculpted
bodies. It's not a lust thing; it's a wondrous thing. They appear as
specimens without flaw -- muscles, strength and coordination all
working in perfect harmony.
Then an athlete walks over to a tote bag, rustles through the
contents and pulls out an inhaler.
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, therapy or surgery. Mothers of
children with disabilities live the limitations with them.
Frankly, I don't know how you do it. Sometimes you mothers scare me.
How you lift that kid in and out of the wheelchair twenty times a day.
How you monitor tests, track medications, and serve as the
gatekeeper to a hundred specialists yammering in your ear.
I wonder how you endure the clichs and the platitudes, the 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 columns 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 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, counter-balanced against the
stubbornness of an Ozark mule.
You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a
disability. You're a daughter, neighbor, a friend, a woman I pass at church and
my sister-in-law. You're a wonder.