Divorce hurts.
Is it worse than a death?
How can you know for sure unless you actually have lived through both a divorce and the death of a spouse?
But, I would imagine that, at least in some ways, the pain of divorce definitely outweighs that of a death.
For lots of reasons.
For starters, there are the kids. And their pain. And the knowledge that they are growing up with far less than what they deserve.
I was so lucky to have a mother and father whose world centered around their daughter.
I never had a doubt that I was the most important thing in their lives.
That feeling carried with it a great sense of responsibility. I did not want to disappoint. I wanted to please. I didn't take risks because I knew, I just knew, that my parents' lives would never be the same if they lost me.
So, how in the world will I know the best way to deal with my children's pain? How can I begin to imagine what my daughter feels, and will continue to feel, as she processes this loss? For lack of a better word, it just sucks. But, at least she can talk to me, and she can ask questions. I can try to explain. I can tell her how she and her brother are the most important things in my life. And I can show her, through my actions, that it was never my choice for her to be away from me, not for a single day.
My son, who has autism and is nonverbal, poses a whole different set of issues. When he leaves to see his dad, I can't even explain to him how long it will be before he sees me again. It kills me to think that he actually might wonder if Mama had something going on that was more important than being with him.
Because nothing -- absolutely nothing -- is more important to me than being there for my children.
There also are, in so many cases, the parents. The parents of the person struggling to rebuild a new life, the grandparents of the children in the middle.
And my parents are taking my divorce very, very hard.
My father introduced me to my soon-to-be-ex. He had been his college professor, his basketball partner.
He wanted me to meet this man because he hoped we would hit it off.
He loved him like a son.
Seventeen years, and two kids later .............. oh, will my dear father, the man with the purest of hearts, ever stop feeling guilty?
And my mom, oh, how could I ever describe her sense of loss? Her entire life has been devoted to doing for others. And here she is, in my home, hugging my son, reading books to my daughter, starting the laundry almost before we have a chance to get any clothes dirty.
She worries about my children just as much as I. And, in some ways, she probably worries more -- because she had more than her share of hurt as a child.
And, of course, there is the personal pain of divorce.
It, too, sucks.
And, yet, I .... am...... OK.
I have come to realize that there is life after divorce.
A lot of life, if you are lucky.
There are so many people bringing smiles and laughter into my life.
There are people, truly wonderful people, who make me feel happy, who make me feel good.
My happiness did not at all depend on the person I married.
Not at all.
Yes, my heart was broken. But it is still there. Every single piece.
I am in such a different place now than I was, say, 6 or 7 months ago. For the longest time, I struggled with how to get my marriage back. I panicked about how I could make it as a single parent.
I was wrapped up in fear.
Today, I realize that my happiness is just as important as my children's.
And I know that my heart is just as big as it was 17 years ago.
Bigger, actually.
I know that there are so many opportunities for me ... opportunities for what truly matters... laughter, friendship, closeness, love.
I am picking up the pieces, of my life and of my heart.
Interestingly enough, today, I am much more worried about the people closest to me and how they are dealing with the dissolution of my marriage.
I see the anger in my daughter. She has a lot of great things going on in her life, opportunities and experiences that many children do not have. But she knows something is not right. She feels anger.
And justifiably so.
I see regression in my son. I worry about him so much when he is away from me. I wish there was some way to let him know, to let him know that I am thinking of him constantly.
And I worry so much about my parents. How I wish I could ease their fears.
How I wish I could do for their broken hearts what the wonderful people in my life have done for mine.
Parents, children ... the worries never end. It is a wonder the pets ever get fed.
I will do my best for all of them. I will count on their love and try my best to send it back, and to send with it the certainty that I am OK. I will seek strength from my friends, all the wonderful friends who care about me, and hope that my children and parents see that I am not going to fall to my knees. Not again.
My heart is so much stronger than it was several months ago. And I have discovered that I am tough enough to survive the unthinkable. How I wish I could share that, how I wish I could give that same feeling, to the people who matter most.
April 18, 2010
April 15, 2010
No Bleach Required
So things have been tough. Very tough.
I just THOUGHT they were bad five-years-ago when I was worried about whether my then one-year-old had autism and whether the baby I was then carrying had a birth-defect that would prevent her from breathing at birth.
Like I said: I just thought those days were difficult.
The past 9 months -- the spouse leaving, the struggles of trying to parent two little kids, one of whom has autism, alone -- all of that has been much worse.
But my daughter said something to me yesterday that reminded me of just how far we have come, my two kiddos and I.
I was cleaning up a mess -- cinnamon that my son had spilled on the table that holds the TV. (You see, my son is really into spinning things these days. Oh, couldn't we have gotten through that when he was, I don't know, two- or three-years-old instead of six? It drives me crazy! He raids my spice rack so he can take the lids off the spice jars. He usually leaves the jars in the rack, but, yesterday, he took the cinnamon along with him. And, of course, he wound up spilling a good bit of it in front of the TV.)
I am cleaning up the cinnamon when my darling daughter walks by. She watches what I am doing and says:
Mama, is that poop or is it part of an ice cream sandwich?
Oh, sweet girl, thank you, thank you, for the laugh.
And for the reminder .....
That even though things aren't easy, even though my marriage crumbled, even though I struggle to be patient and to live each day in the day and not think too far ahead ....
I am so very, very glad that everybody's poop winds up in the pot.
I just THOUGHT they were bad five-years-ago when I was worried about whether my then one-year-old had autism and whether the baby I was then carrying had a birth-defect that would prevent her from breathing at birth.
Like I said: I just thought those days were difficult.
The past 9 months -- the spouse leaving, the struggles of trying to parent two little kids, one of whom has autism, alone -- all of that has been much worse.
But my daughter said something to me yesterday that reminded me of just how far we have come, my two kiddos and I.
I was cleaning up a mess -- cinnamon that my son had spilled on the table that holds the TV. (You see, my son is really into spinning things these days. Oh, couldn't we have gotten through that when he was, I don't know, two- or three-years-old instead of six? It drives me crazy! He raids my spice rack so he can take the lids off the spice jars. He usually leaves the jars in the rack, but, yesterday, he took the cinnamon along with him. And, of course, he wound up spilling a good bit of it in front of the TV.)
I am cleaning up the cinnamon when my darling daughter walks by. She watches what I am doing and says:
Mama, is that poop or is it part of an ice cream sandwich?
Oh, sweet girl, thank you, thank you, for the laugh.
And for the reminder .....
That even though things aren't easy, even though my marriage crumbled, even though I struggle to be patient and to live each day in the day and not think too far ahead ....
I am so very, very glad that everybody's poop winds up in the pot.
April 13, 2010
And So it Goes, with Thanks to Billy
In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
Bill Joel, And So it Goes
I always have loved Billy Joel, from the time I chose "Uptown Girl" as the song that would be played when it was time for me and the party pals to have the skating rink all to ourselves at my birthday party. I think I was seven.
My favorite song of Billy's is one of the lesser known. It is a beautiful song, one that brings back memories of a long-ago spring break vacation with a high school friend. (Hey, Sarah, are you out there, girl? That week will always be one of my favorite memories from high school, just so you know.)
I always wondered about the words.
It is such a mournful song. What was the inspiration?
I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense
Did he mourn the lost chance, the failure to say what needed to be said to hang on to a great love?
Did he mourn the fear that kept him from acting, from speaking, from fighting?
And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose
Did he realize a failure to appreciate the beauty of what was?
And, if so, could there be any greater sorrow? Could there be any greater sadness than to look back on the past and realize an inability to appreciate the beauty, the magnificence, of what was right there in your hands?
But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break
Don't we all have moments in life where something brings us to our knees, sometimes figuratively, but sometimes, very, very literally -- we actually fall to our knees. In prayer, in worship, in panic ... in absolute desperation.
In these moments, the worst moments of our lives, do we ever speak or act with grace?
Some probably sit silent. They retreat.
Some jump and shout. That group would include me.
I am not one to sit silent.
I am a jumper, a shouter, a screamer.
I frequently speak without processing.
I can't sit still; I can't stand to wait. I have to act. When things feel like they are going to hell in a handbasket, I have to do something, even when I haven't the faintest clue of what to do.
I suppose sometimes silence would be better.
But, sometimes .... sometimes, the silence starts to feel endless. It becomes insurmountable.
And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows
What is he singing about?
Did he just give up?
But when we close our eyes, simply because they have seen hardship, don't we lose out on so much? If we can't look at the tough stuff, how will we ever appreciate the good?
So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break
But what do our choices entail? What do they demand of us?
Don't they require a certain toughness? A total commitment, in good times and bad?
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.
Yes, time doesn't stop for heartbreak.
Life doesn't end simply because it is turned upside down.
Groceries must be purchsed. Because even if you don't feel like eating, your kids still need food.
Bills have to be paid.
Sicknesses and injuries must be tended.
Decisions must be made.
And children still need to be loved. Every. single. day.
And, yes, sometimes the person at the other end of that heartbreak really is the only one who knows.
And so it goes.
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
Bill Joel, And So it Goes
I always have loved Billy Joel, from the time I chose "Uptown Girl" as the song that would be played when it was time for me and the party pals to have the skating rink all to ourselves at my birthday party. I think I was seven.
My favorite song of Billy's is one of the lesser known. It is a beautiful song, one that brings back memories of a long-ago spring break vacation with a high school friend. (Hey, Sarah, are you out there, girl? That week will always be one of my favorite memories from high school, just so you know.)
I always wondered about the words.
It is such a mournful song. What was the inspiration?
I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense
Did he mourn the lost chance, the failure to say what needed to be said to hang on to a great love?
Did he mourn the fear that kept him from acting, from speaking, from fighting?
And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose
Did he realize a failure to appreciate the beauty of what was?
And, if so, could there be any greater sorrow? Could there be any greater sadness than to look back on the past and realize an inability to appreciate the beauty, the magnificence, of what was right there in your hands?
But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break
Don't we all have moments in life where something brings us to our knees, sometimes figuratively, but sometimes, very, very literally -- we actually fall to our knees. In prayer, in worship, in panic ... in absolute desperation.
In these moments, the worst moments of our lives, do we ever speak or act with grace?
Some probably sit silent. They retreat.
Some jump and shout. That group would include me.
I am not one to sit silent.
I am a jumper, a shouter, a screamer.
I frequently speak without processing.
I can't sit still; I can't stand to wait. I have to act. When things feel like they are going to hell in a handbasket, I have to do something, even when I haven't the faintest clue of what to do.
I suppose sometimes silence would be better.
But, sometimes .... sometimes, the silence starts to feel endless. It becomes insurmountable.
And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows
What is he singing about?
Did he just give up?
But when we close our eyes, simply because they have seen hardship, don't we lose out on so much? If we can't look at the tough stuff, how will we ever appreciate the good?
So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break
But what do our choices entail? What do they demand of us?
Don't they require a certain toughness? A total commitment, in good times and bad?
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.
Yes, time doesn't stop for heartbreak.
Life doesn't end simply because it is turned upside down.
Groceries must be purchsed. Because even if you don't feel like eating, your kids still need food.
Bills have to be paid.
Sicknesses and injuries must be tended.
Decisions must be made.
And children still need to be loved. Every. single. day.
And, yes, sometimes the person at the other end of that heartbreak really is the only one who knows.
And so it goes.
April 8, 2010
Baby Steps
I know there are people reading this blog who are rooting for me.
Some of you are close personal friends.
Some of you I have never even met face to face, and, yet, I love you and worry about you and value your friendship.
Some of you I have known for a long time.
And some of you are new to my life, but very, very cherished.
You know that the past year has been, to say the least, difficult.
That my heart has been broken.
That I worry about how I am going to make ends meet, how I am going to be everything I need to be for my two children, how I am going to do what needs to be done without the help of a spouse. How will I make it on my own? How I will I be there for my beautiful kids, who both need and deserve so much. They, too, are suffering heartbreak and will continue to suffer from this loss in ways I, the daughter of two fully committed parents, will never be able to understand completely.
Your cheers matter to me, people, in more ways than you know.
Whether you are leaving comments on the blog, sending me personal emails, or dropping me texts out of the blue (yes, T, my old childhood pal, I am talking 'bout you), you words mean so much.
I am taking baby steps.
One by one, little by little.
I am learning what it means to live a completely different life than the one I had envisioned since, well, since I was a 21-year-old bride with absolute faith, absolute trust.
I am learning what it means to let go.
To .... let .... go .....
Of the dreams, of the heartache, of the past 16 years.
I am learning what it means to reclaim ....
Myself, my happiness, my joy for life.
I am discovering just how darn strong I can be, when the alternative is simply not acceptable.
Today I go for a job interview.
For a position I never really envisioned for myself until recently.
My, how times change.
Here I am: college-educated, with a law degree and a federal judicial law clerkship on my resume.
But I have not worked in more than 6 years.
And here is the kicker: I don't even want the legal career I once envisioned.
It seems so pointless.
I just want to be here for my kids.
I want to help my son get the therapy he needs. I want to see him continue to work with these great professonals who understand how much potential he has. I want to pick my daughter up from school every day; I want to drive my son to his appointments myself. I want my children to know that they are my first priority, that their mother would do anything for them ... absolutely anything ... and that she wishes, from the bottom of her heart, that she didn't have to go a day without wrapping her arms around them and feeling their hugs in return.
This road was not on my map.
And, yet, here I am.
I was forced to take it.
Today is a big step.
Keep rooting for me, people.
Keep rooting for my children.
You know I will keep you posted.
Some of you are close personal friends.
Some of you I have never even met face to face, and, yet, I love you and worry about you and value your friendship.
Some of you I have known for a long time.
And some of you are new to my life, but very, very cherished.
You know that the past year has been, to say the least, difficult.
That my heart has been broken.
That I worry about how I am going to make ends meet, how I am going to be everything I need to be for my two children, how I am going to do what needs to be done without the help of a spouse. How will I make it on my own? How I will I be there for my beautiful kids, who both need and deserve so much. They, too, are suffering heartbreak and will continue to suffer from this loss in ways I, the daughter of two fully committed parents, will never be able to understand completely.
Your cheers matter to me, people, in more ways than you know.
Whether you are leaving comments on the blog, sending me personal emails, or dropping me texts out of the blue (yes, T, my old childhood pal, I am talking 'bout you), you words mean so much.
I am taking baby steps.
One by one, little by little.
I am learning what it means to live a completely different life than the one I had envisioned since, well, since I was a 21-year-old bride with absolute faith, absolute trust.
I am learning what it means to let go.
To .... let .... go .....
Of the dreams, of the heartache, of the past 16 years.
I am learning what it means to reclaim ....
Myself, my happiness, my joy for life.
I am discovering just how darn strong I can be, when the alternative is simply not acceptable.
Today I go for a job interview.
For a position I never really envisioned for myself until recently.
My, how times change.
Here I am: college-educated, with a law degree and a federal judicial law clerkship on my resume.
But I have not worked in more than 6 years.
And here is the kicker: I don't even want the legal career I once envisioned.
It seems so pointless.
I just want to be here for my kids.
I want to help my son get the therapy he needs. I want to see him continue to work with these great professonals who understand how much potential he has. I want to pick my daughter up from school every day; I want to drive my son to his appointments myself. I want my children to know that they are my first priority, that their mother would do anything for them ... absolutely anything ... and that she wishes, from the bottom of her heart, that she didn't have to go a day without wrapping her arms around them and feeling their hugs in return.
This road was not on my map.
And, yet, here I am.
I was forced to take it.
Today is a big step.
Keep rooting for me, people.
Keep rooting for my children.
You know I will keep you posted.
March 31, 2010
BECOME AWARE: April is Autism Awareness Month
Do you see those eyes?
Those long, dark eyelashes?
Do you see that face?
Isn't it beautiful?
That is the face of autism.
April is autism awareness month. And April 2 is World Autism Awareness Day.
Six years ago, I didn't give the word "autism" much thought.
So much has happened in six years.
I am no longer the 28-year-old strumming through the days with my beautiful newborn, so sure that my life was exactly as it was meant to be, so sure that the world would hold great things for me, my son, and his father.
Six years have passed and my life is not what I had envisioned.
More importantly, my son's life is not what I had envisioned.
He still cannot talk. He still struggles to process the language -- the never-ending, too-frequently-demanding language -- that fills his days.
He gets frustrated. Who wouldn't. He did not get a fair ride in life. And, even worse, the past year has been so unfair to him, so confusing and unstable. It has affected him deeply.
Yet, here we are, my boy and I, and his amazing little sister. There is so much love in our home.
Autism has, without question, turned my life in a completely different direction than the one I thought I was travelling six years ago. Along the way, I lost the person I thought would be my partner.
This definitely is not the path I had pictured.
But, wow, look what I have discovered along the way.
Autism has been my teacher.
It is like a roadmap that unfolds slowly, in tiny little pieces, and each unfolding reveals something so essential about what really matters in this life, or at least what really ought to matter.
Autism has taught me that someone does not have to talk to communicate.
That so much can be said with our eyes, if we really take the time to look, to gaze, to listen with our hearts and not just our ears.
That being a mother will be the most difficult, and most precious, job I would ever take on.
That milestones -- amazing, joyous milestones -- are cause for tremendous celebration even when they come nowhere close to those annoying timelines set forth in the "what your baby ought to be doing" list. (You guys know the book. Mine will be for sale at my upcoming garage sale. In fact, I'll be happy to give it away.)
Look again at that face.
That is the face of a gorgeous, six-year-old boy who loves to jump in bounce castles. He loves to snuggle with his mommy and his Gram. He loves to dance with his grandfather. He taught himself to swim. He rode the Shock Wave (think double-loop coaster) for the first time when he was FOUR-years-old and loved every second of it.
He figures out so very much about this world without the benefit of language.
He is the most meaningful thing that has ever happened to me.
He has autism, and he is amazing.
March 28, 2010
Recipe for Successful Early Bedtime
Ingredients:
(1) two children: one energetic six-year-old boy with autism and a precocious four-year-old girl;
(2) one sleepy mom;
(3) one amazing-beyond-words Gram.
Directions:
Wake both children well before they desire to get up on Saturday morning.
Arrive by 8:30 a.m. at local mall for Easter Seals Walk-a-Thon.
Older child walks TWO WHOLE MILES; younger child walks one.
Drive directly to local Easter egg hunt.
Park .25 miles away from scene of hunt; children must walk to and from.
Hunt eggs.
Sit and eat candy.
Pet and feed animals at petting zoo--a feature of egg hunt.
Leave egg hunt and pick up food.
Drive directly to neighborhood park; picnic & play with awesome friends.
LOTS of spinning and climbing on new-age park equipment at said neighborhood park.
Drive back to house for one hour of chill-time with best buds.
Drive directly to local pool and swim for two hours.
Return home. Eat dinner and bathe.
If ALL directions are followed in proper order, both children SHOULD fall asleep 30 minutes earlier than normal. Yep, a whopping 30 minutes. But what a fabulous day!
(1) two children: one energetic six-year-old boy with autism and a precocious four-year-old girl;
(2) one sleepy mom;
(3) one amazing-beyond-words Gram.
Directions:
Wake both children well before they desire to get up on Saturday morning.
Arrive by 8:30 a.m. at local mall for Easter Seals Walk-a-Thon.
Older child walks TWO WHOLE MILES; younger child walks one.
Drive directly to local Easter egg hunt.
Park .25 miles away from scene of hunt; children must walk to and from.
Hunt eggs.
Sit and eat candy.
Pet and feed animals at petting zoo--a feature of egg hunt.
Leave egg hunt and pick up food.
Drive directly to neighborhood park; picnic & play with awesome friends.
LOTS of spinning and climbing on new-age park equipment at said neighborhood park.
Drive back to house for one hour of chill-time with best buds.
Drive directly to local pool and swim for two hours.
Return home. Eat dinner and bathe.
If ALL directions are followed in proper order, both children SHOULD fall asleep 30 minutes earlier than normal. Yep, a whopping 30 minutes. But what a fabulous day!
March 11, 2010
Same World, Different Eyes
I find myself really watching people these days.
I can't pay attention to much else other than my son when he is with me because, as anyone with a nonverbal autistic child can tell you, there are so many things you have to think about while out in public that you don't have a lot of time to take in the scenery.
But when I am out and about by myself, or with just my daughter, or even with my son when I think he is happily occupied and not about to bolt, I am really starting to remember how much I once enjoyed "people watching."
But.... there is a difference now.
Call it age, call it maturity, call it life experience -- I don't know. But I don't see the same things the way I once did.
The middle-aged woman with the ultra-short-shorts and the tattoo on the back of her neck? You go, lady, whatever makes you comfortable.
The young couple who cannot keep their hands off each other while enjoying a warm March afternoon at the local botanical gardens? How sweet. What passion. They are so lucky.
The mother at the Walmart with the toddler and the new baby? Oh, honey, what I wouldn't give to share with you what I just saw as I saw it. Your sweet little boy just stood up in the grocery cart -- yes, a risky move given the chance of falling and all, but, whatever -- and he leaned over that infant car seat and kissed your new baby girl on her forehead. Do you know what an AWESOME miracle that is???
I watched a little boy today climbing at the park. He looked about three. He was gorgeous. He climbed all the way to the top of that rope structure -- a very tall structure that still makes me nervous when my son sits atop it -- and yelled down to his grandparents.
Three or four years ago, I would have been so envious. With every single word the boy said I would have wondered "why." Why does this child speak and mine does not? Surely his mother didn't do much differently? I took my vitamins. I didn't drink. I didn't smoke. I didn't even gain a whole lot of weight. I wonder if she ate tuna fish. Did she gas her own car? Because I always was putting gas in my car. Did she have her clothes dry cleaned? Because that was back in the day when I actually dressed in real clothes -- suits dry cleaned and pressed for the life of a young lawyer. Did she exercise during her pregnancy? Because maybe I exercised too much. Maybe I got my heart rate up too high for too long. Was she ever incredibly sick during her pregnancy? Because I ALWAYS will wonder about that horrible case of food-poisoning when I was not even two-months along.
But I didn't think any of those things today when I watched that little boy at the park. I don't think of them much at all, really. Just occasionally when I think back to how sad and worried I was back then. How depressed must I have been to actually look at people with their "normal" children and envy?
But I did. Now, I just wish I could tell them. Tell them all the wonderful things -- the teeny, tiny little things -- they have to cherish.
I glanced from the playground to the parking lot and saw a mom getting out of the car with a very new baby. If she could read my thoughts. Woman, cherish that baby -- right now, every single second. I just assume you don't currently have any worries other than the ordinary -- is he eating enough, will he sleep for a while tonight? And, if so, lady, remember every single day. Because you will never get these days back. They are perfect. Honestly, they are they closest thing to perfection you will ever know.
I mean that because I remember just how perfect I thought my life was when I held my first-born, when I lifted him from the crib each morning and saw how his face lit-up to see mine. What could be more perfect? It was, indeed, perfection, and I always will remember it that way.
And, yet, I also know that life doesn't have to come close to the way you once imagined it in order to be wonderful.
It was not a lesson learned overnight.
I can remember a few people telling me that back in the day -- back in the day of my dark despair and sadness. I needed to hear it; I wanted to believe it. Heck, I wanted to embrace it. But I couldn't.
It is not a switch you can just turn on.
These days, as I people-watch, I really notice the families who have children with disabilities. How much did I ever notice them before? Surely I did, didn't I? I especially notice the ones who take every extra step to make sure their children do not miss out on a single opportunity. They lift their children from the wheelchairs to the rollercoasters, they bring along the medical equipment so their children can eat through a feeding tube, they wait out tantrums so that their children can continue having a good time.
I especially notice the couples who are doing it together. What a testament to their devotion, not only to their children, but to each other.
I have had so much change in my life this past year. All of it so very unexpected. I am so glad that I now am finally starting to open my eyes again to the world around me, instead of walking through life in a haze, thinking only of how I will manage to get through the day, and the week, and the month, without the person I had trusted so very much.
I have had to relearn the lesson I learned as my son's mother, and embrace it all over again. But it still holds as true today as it did when I started to accept it as a mother.
Life doesn't have to come anywhere close to perfect to be good.
I can't pay attention to much else other than my son when he is with me because, as anyone with a nonverbal autistic child can tell you, there are so many things you have to think about while out in public that you don't have a lot of time to take in the scenery.
But when I am out and about by myself, or with just my daughter, or even with my son when I think he is happily occupied and not about to bolt, I am really starting to remember how much I once enjoyed "people watching."
But.... there is a difference now.
Call it age, call it maturity, call it life experience -- I don't know. But I don't see the same things the way I once did.
The middle-aged woman with the ultra-short-shorts and the tattoo on the back of her neck? You go, lady, whatever makes you comfortable.
The young couple who cannot keep their hands off each other while enjoying a warm March afternoon at the local botanical gardens? How sweet. What passion. They are so lucky.
The mother at the Walmart with the toddler and the new baby? Oh, honey, what I wouldn't give to share with you what I just saw as I saw it. Your sweet little boy just stood up in the grocery cart -- yes, a risky move given the chance of falling and all, but, whatever -- and he leaned over that infant car seat and kissed your new baby girl on her forehead. Do you know what an AWESOME miracle that is???
I watched a little boy today climbing at the park. He looked about three. He was gorgeous. He climbed all the way to the top of that rope structure -- a very tall structure that still makes me nervous when my son sits atop it -- and yelled down to his grandparents.
Three or four years ago, I would have been so envious. With every single word the boy said I would have wondered "why." Why does this child speak and mine does not? Surely his mother didn't do much differently? I took my vitamins. I didn't drink. I didn't smoke. I didn't even gain a whole lot of weight. I wonder if she ate tuna fish. Did she gas her own car? Because I always was putting gas in my car. Did she have her clothes dry cleaned? Because that was back in the day when I actually dressed in real clothes -- suits dry cleaned and pressed for the life of a young lawyer. Did she exercise during her pregnancy? Because maybe I exercised too much. Maybe I got my heart rate up too high for too long. Was she ever incredibly sick during her pregnancy? Because I ALWAYS will wonder about that horrible case of food-poisoning when I was not even two-months along.
But I didn't think any of those things today when I watched that little boy at the park. I don't think of them much at all, really. Just occasionally when I think back to how sad and worried I was back then. How depressed must I have been to actually look at people with their "normal" children and envy?
But I did. Now, I just wish I could tell them. Tell them all the wonderful things -- the teeny, tiny little things -- they have to cherish.
I glanced from the playground to the parking lot and saw a mom getting out of the car with a very new baby. If she could read my thoughts. Woman, cherish that baby -- right now, every single second. I just assume you don't currently have any worries other than the ordinary -- is he eating enough, will he sleep for a while tonight? And, if so, lady, remember every single day. Because you will never get these days back. They are perfect. Honestly, they are they closest thing to perfection you will ever know.
I mean that because I remember just how perfect I thought my life was when I held my first-born, when I lifted him from the crib each morning and saw how his face lit-up to see mine. What could be more perfect? It was, indeed, perfection, and I always will remember it that way.
And, yet, I also know that life doesn't have to come close to the way you once imagined it in order to be wonderful.
It was not a lesson learned overnight.
I can remember a few people telling me that back in the day -- back in the day of my dark despair and sadness. I needed to hear it; I wanted to believe it. Heck, I wanted to embrace it. But I couldn't.
It is not a switch you can just turn on.
These days, as I people-watch, I really notice the families who have children with disabilities. How much did I ever notice them before? Surely I did, didn't I? I especially notice the ones who take every extra step to make sure their children do not miss out on a single opportunity. They lift their children from the wheelchairs to the rollercoasters, they bring along the medical equipment so their children can eat through a feeding tube, they wait out tantrums so that their children can continue having a good time.
I especially notice the couples who are doing it together. What a testament to their devotion, not only to their children, but to each other.
I have had so much change in my life this past year. All of it so very unexpected. I am so glad that I now am finally starting to open my eyes again to the world around me, instead of walking through life in a haze, thinking only of how I will manage to get through the day, and the week, and the month, without the person I had trusted so very much.
I have had to relearn the lesson I learned as my son's mother, and embrace it all over again. But it still holds as true today as it did when I started to accept it as a mother.
Life doesn't have to come anywhere close to perfect to be good.
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