Published on The Liahona Project, link here
Being a mother is hard. It's mentally and emotionally taxing in unimaginable ways. Having a child with special needs multiplies the difficulties tenfold. As the mother of multiple children with special needs... there are many, many days when insanity reigns and tears flow like the River Nile.
And I wouldn't have life any other way.
As I met with a Parent Advocate today to discuss how to approach the school, and what laws I needed to be aware of, and what jargon I needed to be familiar with and what paperwork I should never give them outright (things I will always need my own copies of), I was so appreciative that someone understands how hard I fight for my children. How much I love them. How very much I want what is best for them. My Parent Advocate was my hero today. She saw me, a simple mother, that is often overlooked and belittled by professionals, both academic and medical, and she understood that I know. I know my children. I know their needs. Like no one else can, I can see their full potential and where they need the most help so that someday, they can reach it.
And it was a great reminder to me. To take that time and defend my children. To advocate for the best in them. To demand that others see who they are as a whole and not just as some disorder or a list of symptoms. My children are beautiful. My children are brilliant. My children are lovely and loving. My children are thoughtful and helpful. My children are mine.
Though there are times when their bodies do interfere and get in their way. There are times that impulses and compulsions and obsessions and physiological reflexes hinder them and harm others around them. There are times when the noise level at my house is rock-concert high, jarring my teeth, and times when every belonging that the five of them own seems to have been dumped in the living room and trailed around our open floor plan, so that you cannot walk without tripping on a lego or slipping on a Pokemon card or getting your toes caught in doll hair--seriously the worst. thing. ever... it's too much like getting tangled in seaweed! There are days when no one will eat what I cook and days when they cannot help themselves and eat so much they get sick. There are days ruled by medication schedules and days when I am elbow deep in poop, or something equally disgusting (see previous posts). There are times when everyone needs a time out, especially mom. And then there are those blessed moments of peace. Of quiet and calm. Of tangible love that hangs thick like a merciful mist willing me to remember who these children are.
They are not mine. At least, they are not mine alone. They are on loan to me that I might guide and protect and nourish them the best I can. To love them with all I have each and every day so that they can someday learn to love themselves and others. I am their steward, I am to help them learn how to navigate their bodies and to remember that their sweet spirits truly are not their bodies.
Their bodies are temperamental. Their bodies are impatient and impulsive and compulsive. Their bodies avoid all the yummy food I make and vomit at the word 'spider'. Their bodies get tummy aches at the smell of rice and garlic bread. Their bodies hate the color yellow and the sound of balloons popping. Their bodies have allergies and asthma and hearing loss. Their bodies have nervous energy and anxiety and paralyzing fears. Their bodies stutter and stammer and have a hard time communicating. Their bodies are also growing and learning and developing every day.
Their spirits take my breath away.
Their spirits ask the great questions like: Mom, someday will love my children like you and daddy love me? And mom, will I be as good a dad as daddy? I really want to be a funny dad. Mom, Heavenly Father knows me, doesn't He; He follows me everywhere and sees me, doesn't He? I can feel Him watching. Mom, when will I look like other kids do? When will I feel like I belong? Mom, when I die and I am separated from my body, then I won't stutter anymore, right? Mom, when did you know you loved daddy? When did you know you wanted him to be our daddy? Mom, why does rice make me barf? Mom, why can't you see inside your own head? Mom, do you love me the way I am? Mom, why are you crying?
Their spirits give me inspiring insight: Mom, Heaven is right here, we can't see it, but it's all around us and Jesus is right here. Mom, have patience with me, I'm just learning. Mom, forgiving is hard, but if I don't let it go, then it sticks to me like tar and I can't get it off and it suffocates me. Mom, the world is a beautiful place. Mom, I love coming home, home feels so good to my body. Mom, relax. Mom, I know what to do, give me a moment. Mom, when I am scared at night and I know you are asleep and don't want to wake you, I pray and then I'm not scared anymore because the Holy Ghost protects me and makes me feel safe. Mom, oranges do not taste good right after you brush your teeth. Mom, this permanent marker doesn't wash off. Mom, when I grow up I'm going to be a paleontologist and a marine biologist and an engineer to build robots, and an actor... because I can be anything I want to be and everything I choose to be.
It's so very easy to get lost in the daily grind of appointments and medications and meetings and paperwork and schedules. It's so easy to refer to my children by their 'disabilities' because so often I am trying to advocate and facilitate their needs and get my children the services they need. But it really isn't about that. I mean, in the end, all children have special needs, they all have needs that are special and unique to them. We all do. But none of us should be defined by them. We should never be defined by what we are lacking or by our weaknesses.
So I'm hoping tomorrow, as my children come downstairs, sleepy-eyed and yawning, I can greet them for the people they truly are, that I can remember to not get lost in their needs and that I can focus on their lights that shine so vibrant when I let them... or rather when I choose to see them. I hope that I can be energized by their curiosities and wonderment, that I can embrace some of their impulsiveness, throw aside some of the routines, and enjoy them while they are mine. That I can remember the very things I love.
Being a mother is hard. It's mentally and emotionally taxing in unimaginable ways. Having a child with special needs multiplies the difficulties tenfold. As the mother of multiple children with special needs... there are many, many days when insanity reigns and tears flow like the River Nile.
And I wouldn't have life any other way.
As I met with a Parent Advocate today to discuss how to approach the school, and what laws I needed to be aware of, and what jargon I needed to be familiar with and what paperwork I should never give them outright (things I will always need my own copies of), I was so appreciative that someone understands how hard I fight for my children. How much I love them. How very much I want what is best for them. My Parent Advocate was my hero today. She saw me, a simple mother, that is often overlooked and belittled by professionals, both academic and medical, and she understood that I know. I know my children. I know their needs. Like no one else can, I can see their full potential and where they need the most help so that someday, they can reach it.
And it was a great reminder to me. To take that time and defend my children. To advocate for the best in them. To demand that others see who they are as a whole and not just as some disorder or a list of symptoms. My children are beautiful. My children are brilliant. My children are lovely and loving. My children are thoughtful and helpful. My children are mine.
Though there are times when their bodies do interfere and get in their way. There are times that impulses and compulsions and obsessions and physiological reflexes hinder them and harm others around them. There are times when the noise level at my house is rock-concert high, jarring my teeth, and times when every belonging that the five of them own seems to have been dumped in the living room and trailed around our open floor plan, so that you cannot walk without tripping on a lego or slipping on a Pokemon card or getting your toes caught in doll hair--seriously the worst. thing. ever... it's too much like getting tangled in seaweed! There are days when no one will eat what I cook and days when they cannot help themselves and eat so much they get sick. There are days ruled by medication schedules and days when I am elbow deep in poop, or something equally disgusting (see previous posts). There are times when everyone needs a time out, especially mom. And then there are those blessed moments of peace. Of quiet and calm. Of tangible love that hangs thick like a merciful mist willing me to remember who these children are.
They are not mine. At least, they are not mine alone. They are on loan to me that I might guide and protect and nourish them the best I can. To love them with all I have each and every day so that they can someday learn to love themselves and others. I am their steward, I am to help them learn how to navigate their bodies and to remember that their sweet spirits truly are not their bodies.
Their bodies are temperamental. Their bodies are impatient and impulsive and compulsive. Their bodies avoid all the yummy food I make and vomit at the word 'spider'. Their bodies get tummy aches at the smell of rice and garlic bread. Their bodies hate the color yellow and the sound of balloons popping. Their bodies have allergies and asthma and hearing loss. Their bodies have nervous energy and anxiety and paralyzing fears. Their bodies stutter and stammer and have a hard time communicating. Their bodies are also growing and learning and developing every day.
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| What cute little (or not so little) bodies. Love their stinking guts! |
Their spirits take my breath away.
Their spirits ask the great questions like: Mom, someday will love my children like you and daddy love me? And mom, will I be as good a dad as daddy? I really want to be a funny dad. Mom, Heavenly Father knows me, doesn't He; He follows me everywhere and sees me, doesn't He? I can feel Him watching. Mom, when will I look like other kids do? When will I feel like I belong? Mom, when I die and I am separated from my body, then I won't stutter anymore, right? Mom, when did you know you loved daddy? When did you know you wanted him to be our daddy? Mom, why does rice make me barf? Mom, why can't you see inside your own head? Mom, do you love me the way I am? Mom, why are you crying?
Their spirits give me inspiring insight: Mom, Heaven is right here, we can't see it, but it's all around us and Jesus is right here. Mom, have patience with me, I'm just learning. Mom, forgiving is hard, but if I don't let it go, then it sticks to me like tar and I can't get it off and it suffocates me. Mom, the world is a beautiful place. Mom, I love coming home, home feels so good to my body. Mom, relax. Mom, I know what to do, give me a moment. Mom, when I am scared at night and I know you are asleep and don't want to wake you, I pray and then I'm not scared anymore because the Holy Ghost protects me and makes me feel safe. Mom, oranges do not taste good right after you brush your teeth. Mom, this permanent marker doesn't wash off. Mom, when I grow up I'm going to be a paleontologist and a marine biologist and an engineer to build robots, and an actor... because I can be anything I want to be and everything I choose to be.
It's so very easy to get lost in the daily grind of appointments and medications and meetings and paperwork and schedules. It's so easy to refer to my children by their 'disabilities' because so often I am trying to advocate and facilitate their needs and get my children the services they need. But it really isn't about that. I mean, in the end, all children have special needs, they all have needs that are special and unique to them. We all do. But none of us should be defined by them. We should never be defined by what we are lacking or by our weaknesses.
So I'm hoping tomorrow, as my children come downstairs, sleepy-eyed and yawning, I can greet them for the people they truly are, that I can remember to not get lost in their needs and that I can focus on their lights that shine so vibrant when I let them... or rather when I choose to see them. I hope that I can be energized by their curiosities and wonderment, that I can embrace some of their impulsiveness, throw aside some of the routines, and enjoy them while they are mine. That I can remember the very things I love.
A beautiful song by Mindy Gledhill.
All About Your Heart.
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