I can't take credit for this one at all. A dear friend of mine sent this to me and it made her think of Sophie and I. I just wanted to share.
To the Me of Ten Years Ago
You…yes you, holding that sweet baby girl in the plaid dress. Let’s chat.
You don’t know it yet, but that sweet baby girl has a secret. One
that will slowly and not completely reveal itself over the next few
years.
It’s going to break your heart. Repeatedly.
But I promise you, it will be okay.
No. Really.
Sure, you’ll need therapy. And you’ll get a bottle of Prozac with
that therapy. It’ll help. It will help you crawl out of the big cloud
of overwhelmedness you will feel for a year or so. But you won’t need
them forever.
That baby girl’s going to keep you up at night – literally and
figuratively. You will worry over her like no other child has made you
worry. I’ll be honest, you’ll never get over that worry, but it won’t
haunt you constantly.
One by one, you’re going to give up on the dreams you had for this
baby girl. The ones of her going to school, going to college, what she
could be as an adult. The furthest ones will fade first. For a while,
you live in the moment. Eventually, you allow yourself to think a
couple of years ahead tops. Oh, you will plan for her long-term, but in
the most generic of ways. Inheritances. Guardians. You even ponder
the idea of a group home. But mostly, you don’t think of those things.
You just take it a few days at a time. It’s just easier that way.
You will meet all sorts of people because of this child, and their
true selves will be revealed. You’ll learn that some people just suck,
some people mean well but should keep their mouths shut, some people are
kind but sometimes clueless to what you’re going through. But you’ll
learn that most people, at heart, are good. This child will help
restore your faith in mankind again, and again, and again, just in how
they treat her.
You will spend the next nine years wondering how you ended up the
parent of a special needs child. You kind of get used to it, but at the
same time, you will never get used to it. It will be this feeling of
constant surprise when you sit back and think about it. How did I get
here? How did this happen?
No, you will never quite get used to it, no matter how much you do accept it.
You will learn to be a fighter. You will find strength you never
realized you had and overcome your fear of confrontation. You do this
because not doing this is not an option. That baby girl needs you to be
this way. And you’re not about to let that girl down.
You will find that those three amazing kids you had before her? Are
even more amazing than you could imagine. They will show compassion and
understanding beyond their years which will make you proud.
But those three will have to put up with so much because of their
sister. Hours in waiting rooms, stuff broken by her, my inability to
multi-task and spread my attention to everyone evenly. Your heart will
break for them, that at a young age, they will realize that they will
someday inherit this sister. But once again, these three kids will
amaze you, for they will never resent that little sister. Be annoyed by
her? Oh sure. But in normal ways. Those three little children who
would hover around Maura’s bassinet and announce every time she cried
will continue to look out after her over the coming years. They will
let you know that you’ve done at least one or two things right.
That little baby girl? Is going to work so very hard the next ten
years to learn things. Slowly, but surely, she will learn things. I
promise you, she will walk, she will get there. She will talk too – not
great, but enough. Can’t promise you on the toilet training, but don’t
give up, she should get there.
You can’t tell right now, but that baby girl’s brain? Is going to
freak out on her. She will be diagnosed with epilepsy. It will freak
you out at first. I promise, promise that it will be okay. It will not
stop her from anything. In fact, you’ll find out that things will
improve for her after the diagnosis and starting medication. It will
quickly go from something scary to something to be oddly grateful for.
And then it will just become something that you all will be able to live
with. Yes, that thing that will be on top of your “Big Scary Things I
Don’t Want My Child to Have” list will suddenly be not that scary.
I promise that.
Speaking of medical things, your days of never seeing the
pediatrician because your kids are so dang healthy? Those are over.
You will get frequent flyer miles at the doctor’s office. You will
collect cards of all sorts of medical professionals. You will learn
which blood lab does the best blood draws on children. You will be able
to write things like “epicanthal folds” and “oxcarbazepine” without
thinking. You will also know that as much as you’re dealing with,
you’re grateful that is all you are dealing with. Because there could
be more, it could be worse.
Your back is going to spasm out from carrying that child around so
much. You’ll end up with tennis elbow from lifting her as a seven year
old into her car seat. You will put on weight from stress eating. You
will lose your mind a little.
It’ll be okay.
Your world will revolve around poop. Your friends may think you talk
about it too much. They will have no idea just how much you could
speak of it. Don’t worry though, you will discover a small group of
other moms obsessed over bowel movements. And you will be able to
over-share with them.
Your life is not going to go as you had vaguely planned it. It’s
going to veer off in a new direction. People will link you to the
heartwarming tale “Welcome to Holland”. You will hate it. That’s
okay. You’re allowed to hate it.
You will find out that there are cliques even in the special needs
community. So you’ll start your own damn support group. It’ll be
called “Who wants to get coffee with me?” It will be great.
You will learn to view adults with special needs in a whole new
light. You will see a man in his 50′s happily buying a coloring book
and it will make you think of your daughter. You will not cry in the
store, but later on, there will be some tears.
You will feel so very alone with this child at times. Sometimes, at
home, at night, other times, in the middle of a crowd. You will feel a
cold wave of loneliness that you’re certain no one else will ever really
understand.
You will feel jealousy, of other people and their children who are
developing normally. Of their seemingly placid lives that don’t
involved fighting schools and doctor visits and poop.
Just remember, you were raised to not whine about things and deal.
And you do. You will suck it up and deal with it as best you can. And
you will do so with a smile on your face. Because crying is never an
option.
Well, most of the time.
You will write and blog about this child, and her life. And in doing
so, find a whole slew of people out there who say “Wow! I live this
too!” and “Thank you for writing exactly how I feel!” Somehow, you will
become a voice for others and you’ll realize that you’re completely
inadequate when it comes to saying “thank you” and still are lousy at
accepting compliments. Work on that, okay?
You will discover that while you never expected to be a special needs
parent, you will end up a bit of an advocate for special needs
children. You will wonder more than once how you ended up on top of a
soapbox. Don’t worry, you’ll be okay up there.
You will learn that the guy you chose to marry ten years before?
Good choice. That man will be the one helping you pick up the pieces
when you shatter, will love that baby girl as much as any other child,
will take care of life when you can’t, and will still find you sexy even
after all that stress-eating weight gain.
It’s going to be the proverbial emotional roller coaster, these next
ten years. You’ll have moments where you’re feeling so high, only to
crash back down.
But know this -
You will grow.
You will amaze yourself.
You will let go of fears.
You will embrace the now.
And you will love this amazing, beautiful happy child so much, it will hurt. And you will be okay with that.
Oh, and that straight hair? Is going to start to curl. Go figure.
Blog Post by Phoebe Holmes
