To mothers of abled-bodied children,
Our eyes meet with a knowing look and an empathetic smile in an unspoken sign of solidarity. Mama, I see you. I feel you down to your exhausted bones, anxious mind, and weary soul. I too am mentally running through the list of things I still have to do that day, while simultaneously cursing the chokehold Youtube has on my kid lately.
I notice when my daughter comes closer, though, and you glance at her leg. I see you clock the massive scar that peeks out of the top of her shirt. I see you looking at her longer than usual—longer than you would look at a child without a disability. The weight of your thoughts makes the air heavy and palpable.
As you watch her, I watch you.
I hear you, though you’re not saying anything.
I can see your thoughts running across your face.
You wonder what she “has.” You wonder if her parents knew before she was born. You wonder how she is. She’s so small and petite, is that her disability? Does she get bullied? Kids are so mean. You wonder if your own kids are mean. You ask yourself if you’ve ever even talked to them about kids that have a disability?
I don’t know if I could do it, you think. I couldn’t parent a child with a disability. I’m not strong enough. There’s just no way. That would kill me. That has to be so hard. Thank God my kids don’t have disabilities, I wouldn’t even know where to begin or what to do, you think.
You wonder if her parents were sad, if they are always sad. You wonder if her mama cries all the time. You’d probably cry all the time you think to yourself. Is that a prosthetic on her leg or is it a brace? Does she even have a leg? Why does she walk like that? Can she run? Can she go in the pool with that thing on? How does she swim? Will she be able to drive? What is that huge scar on her chest from?
I saw it all though. I felt it. I felt it as surely as I feel the love I have for Callie, my daughter who does have a disability.
What I want you to know is I probably had some of those exact same thoughts before I became a mama.
I want you to know, if this were your child, you could do this. I did it. I’m doing it, and it’s not because I’m a saint, a better person, or stronger than anyone else. When you choose to become a mother, you’re a mother regardless of the child you get the privilege of raising. You just do it. You change course because isn’t that what life is anyway? Bobbing, weaving, adapting, and evolving? A constantly changing course.
I want you to know that if this were your child, you could do this.
I want you to know the love I have for Callie matches the love you have for your child. The pride I have is the same. The absolute gratitude I have for being a mother is equal to yours. I also have a lot of the same stress, worries, hopes, guilt, struggles, prayers, heart aches, and triumphs as you. In fact, I probably have some incredibly hilarious stories about being a mom that I’m sure would make you pee your pants laughing.
You know what else I have? A ferocity and a tenacity unmatched by the scariest of dragons, the most vicious of beasts, or the most wicked of storms. I gave birth to it at the exact same moment Callie entered this world.
When we see one another and smile in solidarity, please interact with me the same way you would any other mama on the playground. Ask me questions. Assume I’m very much like any other mom. Assume my daughter is very much like your child. I am. She is. Don’t feel sorry for me or my daughter. Don’t stop your child from asking questions, encourage them. Welcome their curiosity. Encourage play and a relationship between the kids and open up that conversation with them and you.
When you do, something incredible will happen. Someone like my daughter becomes the norm. And in a perfect world, they play together while we talk about how much we hate Youtube and can’t wait for Spring Break—and how we secretly love when our kids ask to stop for a cake pop from Starbucks on the way home from the park.
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