What It Feels Like Being a Special Needs Mom
Having a child with special needs feels much the same as it does not to, and yet, well… different. Having a child with special needs feels like you won the lottery times infinity times gajillion because, as every mom knows, having a baby introduces a level of love we’d never have imagined.
Having a child with special needs also feels jealous, and sad, and cheated, and like you need to be a mama bear in a way that mama bears with typical kids can’t understand.
It means that you have a baby – just like everybody else – and your moods and your boobs are elated and deflated. You’re overwhelmed and in awe. Just like every new mother. It also means that at some point, you realize that your child is different.
And because of that, you are, too.
Having a child with special needs means that you’ll spend days, months, and (sometimes) years pretending. Pretending that everything’s fine. That he’s “normal.” You’ll talk about delays, and pretend to feel relieved when family and friends tell you not to worry about them. You’ll want so badly to believe that every baby develops at his own rate that you’ll try. You’ll try to believe. You may run with that for longer than makes sense because you don’t know how to make sense of the fact that you know. You know something’s wrong.
You’ll have friends with children who are mere weeks apart from yours when it comes to biological age. When they’re tiny, you won’t see a lot of differences. You’ll try to not focus on the small things and on the milestones. Your friends’ kids will get older, as will yours. And, all of a sudden, you’ll see more and more. You’ll notice differences. You’ll see your friends pretending not to see. Reassuring you, because they’re good people, and are trying to say the right thing. Again, you’ll pretend to believe them.
In the meantime, you’ll receive devastating news from a doctor, from Early Intervention, from a therapist, from a school. They’ll confirm that you were right. That your child is not typical.
You’ll mourn.
You’ll mourn for the baby you thought you’d have. You’ll cry for the injustice of being dealt an unfair hand.
You’ll have faith.
You have faith that he will catch up. Or at least be okay. You have to have faith because the alternative isn’t an alternative.
Finally, maybe, you’ll understand that your baby is delayed. Is not “typical.” And you’ll do what you have to do. You’ll seek therapy. All of it. You’ll pay $3500 for a few hours of social interaction therapy in a single week, knowing that it makes a difference and that insurance won’t cover it.
You’ll reach a point where you so badly want to come out to friends and family because you’re lonely. And so you do. They say they’re okay with it, but they don’t get it. A part of you doesn’t want them to get it because you don’t want pity. More than anything else, you don’t wan’t pity. But you also understand that it’s hard for them not to offer a bit of pity when it’s a situation that actually warrants some.
In searching for answers, you look at your cards and realize that others are dealt a much more difficult hand. That some hands involve birthing babies fighting for their lives, who die, who were “incompatible with life,” and you feel blessed. Because you are.
You are blessed. Every mother is. Every parent is.
On the flip-side, one day, you’ll get on Facebook and see somebody complain that her two-year-old called her fat. You’ll feel jealous as hell that her two-year old knows what fat is, because your 3 ½ year old thinks you’re perfect. Fat and all.
And then, you’ll realize that maybe you’re the lucky one. That having a two-year old call you fat makes for some funny blog material, but that having a 3 ½ year old who still thinks you’re the best person in the history of time is pretty perfect.
You’ll see that although his language sucks compared to his peers, when you say “You’re my favorite person in the whole wide world!” and he pushes your face away with a silly grin, that in his heart, he’s saying “I know, Mommy. And you are mine.”
Because you know.
Life will be different than you imagined.
And it’s going to be just fine.
Kristi Campbell almost always leaves the house in either flip-flops or Uggs, depending on the weather. Although she works part-time, her passion is writing and drawing really stupid-looking pictures for her blog Finding Ninee. Finding Ninee (pronounced 9E for her son’s pronunciation of the word airplane) started due to a memoir, abandoned when Kristi read that a publisher would rather shave a cat than read another. Its primary focus is to find and provide humor and support in a “Middle World,” one where the autism spectrum exists but a diagnosis does not. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.
