Now I’m no longer doubtful
Of what I’m living for
If I can make you happy
I don’t have to do more
I really, really wanted to write something poignant for Mother’s Day. You know, one of those Kleenex-grabbers that ultimately would be e-mailed around the world, scoring me an interview with Oprah and a lucrative book deal. More than likely, if you’ve been living in the special needs parenting world for a while, you’ve already been Welcomed to Holland and read the infamous Erma Bombeck and Michelle Guppy odes to special needs motherhood. (If you haven’t, really, you should…)
But today, I’m not feeling all warm and fuzzy about my special needs sainthood. The reality is, I’m not all that special. I’m just a mom, stretch marks and a c-section scar included.
Some days I’m brilliant. Some days I’m downright crappy.
Some days I’m thankful. Some days I’m sad. Most days I’m worried sick about something.
So I run. I fight with my husband. I lecture my kids. I eat too much so I run some more. I work and worry and obsess, trying to solve problems that are bigger than me. I do what I can to make the world a better place.
I pray my son will somehow overcome the paralysis that precludes him from communicating.
I hope both of my children will reach their full potential. I wonder what mine actually is.
I cruelly dissect the weekly performances on American Idol with my daughter, yet hope she will be kind. I hope my children will never judge anyone because of the color of their skin or their eyes or their economic or intellectual status. I hope no one is cruel to either of them. I hope they realize the content of their character is the most important thing. I hope they don’t spend years on a therapist's couch recovering from my hypocritical parenting.
I hope they can both achieve independence. You know.. the whole roots and wings thing…
I hope when my eyes close that final time, they will remember a mom who smelled good most of the time, who they thought was pretty; who took time to listen; who planted beautiful flowers; who was a horrible cook but danced in the kitchen with them; who always looked great for her age; who screwed up and sometimes even admitted it…
Who never stopped learning…
Who had a poor concept of time but taught them the value of every moment.
Who loved them unconditionally. Who laughed at them and with them. Who pushed them just hard enough while simultaneously pulling them as close as possible.
Who loved their dad.
Who loved herself and taught them the value of doing the same.
So incredibly ordinary.
My purpose in this extraordinary life.