When I was in the 8th grade, a new friend of mine told me that she'd have a hard time being the mother of a handicap child. The context of the conversation was appropriate but I remember thinking "what's a handicap child"?
My best friend in the whole world when I was growing up had a sister in a wheelchair and I didn't think of her as handicap, I thought of her as my best friends older sister. That had clout. We stayed with her almost every Friday night while their parents had a night out. If it wasn't Friday night, we hung out together practically every day after school and twice that in the summertime. She was family to me and it never dawned on me until that statement was made that their family was any different than mine. I guessed later that not everybody had somebody in their life that was so-called 'handicap'. (I realize now the terms vary and society has pretty much settled on "special needs", but you get the picture.) It was an odd revelation to me at that time but my relationship didn't change.
After all, I had a second cousin with a severely handicap child, a blind girl in high school that I helped walked to lunch, and people that came to church every Sunday with their wheelchair-bound and sometimes screaming children. None of that ever bothered me. And frankly, I'm sure I didn't think much about it. There are all kinds of people in the world. It's who you love.
My parents taught me to hold the door for my elders, give up my seat to anybody who appeared to need it more than I did and to take people's coats when they came in the house. Along with my brother and sister, I was a candy striper during my Jr high summers with the American Red Cross and volunteered in a local nursing home. We were not allowed to play with empty wheelchairs, my sister's crutches after surgery or any walkers that belonged to any Great Aunt. Grandpa's walking stick was out of the question, too. This was part of an unspoken yet understood rule that these tools didn't belong to us and we didn't need them to survive the day. Somebody else did.
I dont know many parents who choose to have a special needs infant; they dont shop for baby clothes, toys and gadgets during pregnancy hoping for something less than perfect, but still, it happens. And it's ok. Eventually.
Now, on to my point: I'm all grown up now. Call it what you will, but I'm the mother of three pretty normal looking children. They all have needs that are unique to them but one is especially needy about 90% of the time. He's not in a wheelchair and doesn't walk with a limp, he is now fully potty trained, except when there's a big change coming, and for a six year old, I seem to think that he is very smart. He can be really funny when hes not trying to, he gets teased by his sisters & screams accordingly, he rides a tricycle with dept speed and no agility whatsoever, loving to pull his little sister in the trailer behind, finally dresses himself with no help, eats healthier than anybody I've ever met, and wakes promptly at 6:15 every morning. He has an annoying knack for remembering the oddest of details and will mimick himself or others for hours on end. He has no filter on his mouth, no volume control, self control or body control. He clenches his teeth probably 15 hours out of the day and tries really hard not to bite anything he's not supposed to.
When Lars was two, a fellow mother told me that, among other awful realities of having no compassion, no love and no real emotion , he would have no imagination of his own and not to expect any natural creativity. Now, I ask you... who do you think spent his early morning screaming and crying about the injustices in his little life (I think it is the oddly cool and rainy days we're having), then after a half hour of deep pressure went downstairs to create this masterpiece?
My Lars. That's who.
You'll notice a complete city with hospital and helipad, fire station and clock (Clokk, bc he couldn't find another C) making factory, a Ford factory, a river running through the town with draw bridges for cars to cross, Lake Huron with a freighter on it and lots of little buildings like grocery stores and the post office. Down the road is Flintstones village with parking all around and the community center in the middle.
Yes, I have my days where I won't last till he's 18 and they are peppered with moments such as these. God is good. Even when I'm not good at it.
