I am writing this while I look at the flower you made me for Mother’s Day two years ago. Two years. The time has flown in the blink of an eye. It’s so true what they say- the days are long, but the years are short.
You are my love, my life, my sweet little one. I look at you
and I see all the wonder that is in the world and everything beautiful and
Today, your journey as a preschooler ends. We have the summer and then off to kinder you go. It’s what is supposed to happen, I know this. But while it’s a beginning, it’s also an end for your old mom. You’re a full-time kid now.
I remember when you started preschool. You were so sweet and shy, curling up in the corner of the classroom with a book, quiet and not quite ready to explore. You have grown so much- that shy little guy has been replaced by a smart, chatty, kind boy.
Gone are the days I pop out of my office to see your sweet face
over lunch or you sneak in to craft something out of my office supplies. It’s
time for you to spread your wings a little. It’s time for me to cry a little.
We’re growing and changing. But no matter if you’re half my
size or towering over me, you will always
be my little boy. My firstborn- love of my life.
Most days the loss of my mom is back of mind. It’s been over ten years now, so I have somewhat adapted to the loss. On Mother’s Day, it’s hard not to think about it. How I’ve grown as a mom without her presence, and how I miss her.
My first-ever piece on Her View From Home, back for this special yet sad day.
The last two
years have been full of ups and downs for our family. We’ve been riding a
roller coaster of emotions- the highest of highs and some really dark lows.
I’ve been open about my struggles with PTSD and anxiety- until lately. I was doing great, and when I wasn’t I was ashamed to share it again, thinking that I’d failed. I felt like I was out of the woods, and suddenly here I am, waking up before sunrise every morning, anxiety gripping at my insides, sadness and shame forcing me out of bed to start my day.
I know that anxiety and depression is a
lifelong struggle. But like many people who fight it, I forget. I will feel
great for a while, think I am cured and get cocky. I’m healed! Self-care be
damned! Take on all the things! Lean in!
true, friends. I’m scared all the time. I feel like one of my worst nightmares
happened in my own home and while Ben is doing amazing, I can’t protect him. I’ve
gotten so anxious that I’ve turned into a tyrant. I don’t take the boys to the
playground for fear of injury. When they kick the ball into the street one too
many times I force us all inside because I know
that a car will come whipping around the corner, injuring one of my precious
babies. I yell. Will tells me I’m mean. I cry. Too often.
someone who lives in a box of fear, and that’s no place to be.
next? I confessed to Jeff all that is ailing me, and while he doesn’t understand
it, he does his best to support me. He listens, he reads up on anxiety and
depression (nerd), and he stands beside me. He is a big dumb guy sometimes, but
he is also my biggest champion. And he knows that under this shouty woman is a
wife and mom who is scared, whose lunacy is rooted in a of love.
to my psychiatrist for help, and I’m on the hunt for a new therapist. I’ve
learned over the years that I’m better medicated, so we are working to find the
right cocktail of drugs to help me even out, so I can attack the anxiety
I need to find a way to balance the fear with reality. To know that I can protect my boys, but that I need to allow them to spread their wings. To realize that after darkness, there is dawn- and you must embrace that, not live in fear of the next storm.
And I share.
With all of you because we are better together. I’ve hidden behind a mask of
fake happiness too many times, and I know so many other mamas who do too. I’m
not sure which is scarier- sharing or hiding. But I share because I know I am
not alone, and I want to lend my voice to those other friends struggling in
silence. Fighting the fight against anxiety is exhausting, but I’m worth it. My
boys are worth it. We are ALL worth it.
The value of work is what we’re talking about today. It took me awhile, but my hope is that our children learn a little sooner. I’m very grateful for everything my parents provided for me, but I want my children to understand the value of hard work.
A couple months ago I wrote a piece for
Reality Moms on the idea that the two’s weren’t quite as terrible as I’d
Well, I can admit when I’m wrong. (Mostly. Sometimes?) Now
that we are in the thick of it I’m back to admit the error of my ways and share
some more of our journey through the adventures of life with a two-year-old. Or
at least, life with our two-year-old.
My latest piece about the life of Ben on Reality Moms.
I’m a parent to a child with nearly invisible special needs. He’s nothing special, and by that I mean he’s about yay high, blond hair, blue eyes, kind of dirty all the time… I’m not quite sure what people expect to see when you say you have a special needs child. I hear all the time how “normal” he seems and looks of surprise when people meet him.
To the naked eye, my son is a beautiful, wild two-year old
boy. What you don’t see are the hard times we have. The therapies we juggled
for the past two years. How even after all this time he sometimes likes to
neglect one side of his body. Or how his jaw still struggles to find strength
to chew some kinds of food. Or how he gets really overwhelmed sometimes and
bangs his head on things or pulls his hair. Much of our play is work, trying to
increase his strength and coordination, or help his speech become more defined.
Because he appears like every other child on the playground,
I worry about my son. I worry that his teacher won’t understand that he is
dealing with some special needs and that he needs help, not punishment. That
his outbursts aren’t because he is naughty, but because he is frustrated. While
you may see him as a child with ordinary abilities, this boy is extraordinary.
You see, when my son was a baby he survived a traumatic
brain injury that we were told may leave him unable to walk, talk, or go to
school. The milestones that children experience are things that we all meet
with joy- with him, I meet them with cheering & great victory. He doesn’t
walk, he runs. But still I worry.
I already get puzzled looks when I mention therapies. Or
potential diagnoses of cerebral palsy. That’s when that word “normal” rears its
ugly head once again.
I wonder how the world will treat my son when he’s no longer
a tiny cute toddler. When he is faced with the real world that I can no longer
protect him from. When someone may notice that he is a little different. Then
what of this “normal” everyone speaks of?
I wonder if he we will be able to get the resources he needs
to help him succeed when he ages out of early intervention. When our team of
many becomes our team of just us. I am already his advocate, educating people
on the world of Ben, but I will become his fighter if I need. In some ways I struggle, but I think I was
completely meant for this job- we were meant for each other.
Because you can’t see some things doesn’t mean that they
aren’t there. While you may not see his struggles, you may also not see the
miracle. The fact that his victories come with a little extra effort which
makes us appreciate them even more.