Mother Moments

14 Jun

In the darkest of my fears, I sat alone, watching my little girl sleep. She was three days old. I felt like I had aged 50 years in those three short days. My life as I knew it, was over.

Before me slept an enormous responsibility. Before me slept one of the most vulnerable babies I had ever known. Before me slept my fear, my betrayal, my heartache…my love, my new life…my daughter.

From the moment that I found out that she was blind, I began to have “moments”. Moments are hallmark to all new mothers, but mine became drastically different from theirs. I began to have special needs mother moments.

In order for me to describe to you what those are, I have to tell you about my moments when my first chid was born. When he was born I had lots of those mommy moments where my heart filled with fear and anticipation. My brain would race full speed ahead to the future and I would begin to worry about what would happen to my baby boy.

Will he sit up before he’s 6 months old? Will he crawl by 9 months? Will he walk before he turns 1? Will he be potty trained by the time he’s 3? Will he learn his colors, numbers, and letters before kindergarten? Will he learn to read without difficulty? Will he get good grades, make friends, join the soccer team or play basketball? Will he be a responsible driver at 16? Will he take a girl to the prom? Will he graduate high school with honors? Will he go to college out of state?

All of my worries with my son were not questions of “what if he doesn’t___”. They were questions of will he do this now or later? Will he do this or that? I never feared that he wouldn’t walk or talk, be potty trained, learn the alphabet, read, write, drive, play sports, have girlfriends, graduate or go to college. I knew that he would do all of those things.

I simply worried the biggest worry since the invention of motherhood. My uneasiness festered within the age old question that millions of moms before me have tortured themselves with.

“Was I doing it right?”

After the birth of Oliana my moments of “Was I doing this right?” became overwhelmed by the heavier contemplation and an inward reflection of myself. I began to worry “Can I do this at all?”

In the beginning I had no one to lead me down a previously cultivated path, pointing out all of the obstacles. I had no mother who had been there before me who could assure me that I was doing this thing correctly.

When my son was born I simply picked up the phone and called my mother if I had a question. If she didn’t answer I called a friend. Now when I asked my mom questions about what to do with Oli or what the next step should be, she shrugged her shoulders and responded “I just don’t know.” My friends didn’t know either. If I tried to describe how I felt they all got a look in their eyes of total compassion, but complete incomprehension. They just didn’t understand.

I had been thrown into a tumultuous sea with a flimsy life raft that had a slow leak in it.

No one knew what I was supposed to do. No one could tell me how I was supposed to feel.

I began to ask myself some of those same questions that I asked myself with my son, but with a completely different context. Instead of wondering when she would do things, I began to wonder if she would EVER do them.

Will she learn to read, write, or spell her name? Will she ever be able to tie her shoes? Will she learn to walk down the street by herself? Will she one day be able to say the alphabet, be potty trained, or learn to use a fork and spoon by herself?

I didn’t know.

I started to have moments where I just could not stop myself from reliving what my life had been like before and what it was going to be like in the future. I began to daydream and create alternate realities where I would live the best and worst case scenarios.

The best of the best case scenario was one where upon a trip to an eye specialist, he would look into her non-existent eyes and tell me that there had been some kind of terrible mistake. She wasn’t blind at all.

Best case scenario was that she was only blind and cognitively and developmentally appropriate.

Worst case scenario involved a wheel chair, hospital bed, ventilators, and round the clock nurses. Life would creep slowly by with every minute spent worrying about her health for the rest of my life.

I ended up somewhere in the middle.

These “moments” now take on a whole different perspective as she gets older. Most often it happens when I see another little girl that is her age doing something normal. Something completely average and typical. Running through the park, laughing and playing, tying her shoes, eating an ice cream cone, hugging her mother, saying I love you.

These moments creep up on me and slam that heartache fiercely into my chest and steal the breath from my lips.

Those are the things that my little girl should be doing. I close my eyes and superimpose my girl’s face onto the other child’s body and imagine her living her life without blindness or delays. I imagine her running and playing. I see her looking into my eyes and feel her breath against my cheek as she whispers “I love you mommy.”

But when I open my eyes, those dreams disappear and vanish quietly. Thin, transparent, wisps of smoke that drift effortlessly through my fingers.

This was simply not how it was meant to be. She has a disability. She will ALWAYS have a disability. I cherish who she is and what she can do. I celebrate her numerous victories and feel gratitude towards what we have.

Sometimes…I still get sad. I’m human. I’m a mom.

Those are some of my moments today.

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3 Responses to “Mother Moments”

  1. My Dance in the Rain July 18, 2013 at 4:56 am #

    Mothers….we torture ourselves so.

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  1. The Beautiful Mama Blog Award | the mmmmm family - August 5, 2013

    […] I’m fine but My Mummy Has Issues!; This blog is very special as is the mummy writing it, honest and full of […]

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