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It was one of those days when I would have given anything to be someone else.
We were at the park and I
watched my 3-year-old son climb the slide's ladder. He crossed the
balance beam and conquered the climbing wall, and I just stood there,
trying to tell my fears to shut up.
I knew that, if he were
to fall, these arms could not catch him. I could only kiss away the
tears I failed to save him from. I am a mother with upper limb
differences, and this swallowing of fear is a daily effort on my part,
since I've always felt a little less capable as a human being, and
especially now as a mother.
I was born with a disability called arthrogryposis multiplex congenita
(AMC), and it left my arms weak, shorter than average and stiff. This
makes the most mundane tasks quite difficult sometimes, but I'm so
grateful that AMC also left my hands hooked under -- it's with these
"hooks" I am able to carry my children, at least for a few seconds here
and there.
As I watch my little boy
flit from one obstacle to another, I remember the summer before I
started kindergarten. I was playing at the park while my own mother
watched from the shade.
I didn't dare tackle the
very tall slide, as ladders always scared me. I couldn't properly grip
the rungs, and even at that young age, I understood that I had limits.
Instead, I climbed the
wide steps of the elephant-shaped slide, which was probably intended for
children much younger than me. I reached the top and shoved off. From
the first moment of my descent, I began to lose control. My body had
turned sideways by the time I reached the bottom, and I fell onto the
concrete landing, left arm first.
The thing about arms
affected by AMC is that they don't bend. They just break. My mom rushed
me to the hospital for this, the first of the seven arm breaks of my
childhood.
Naturally, even now as an
adult, I find it difficult to watch my son take physical risks without
feeling a surge of panic. Without remembering the crunch of snapping
bone.
He, however, seems to
live for anything that would terrify me. Often I force myself to turn
away so he can earn his boyhood scrapes without this nervous mom
swooping in.
For many things, I have
to use my feet. I have to admit that toes are poor substitutes for
fingers, and for every obstacle I've overcome, there are 10 that I
haven't. Despite that, I drive a car. I change diapers. I've published a
book and am a freelance journalist -- every word typed by toe. I travel
all over the country to speak to schools, women's groups, churches.
But the truth is, as my
son laid on my chest moments after birth, I didn't know how I would
manage to hold him. I didn't know how I'd work a car seat. I'd changed
exactly one diaper, years before, and I'd never held an infant. I was in
over my head.
But my son and I adapted
to each other quickly, so that within two weeks my husband went back to
work and I was able to care for my new baby -- not without difficulty,
but without help. Luckily, newborns are extremely patient (read: they
can't move), so I was able to work on those things that were difficult,
and take my time until it became a little more natural for me.
But really, most of what
I do throughout the day is struggle. I am in such awe as I watch how
easily other moms pick up their toddlers. How easily someone turns the
page of a book. How quickly other writers can type. Wow. What would that
be like?
Struggle has been the
great theme of my 30 years. And for most of those years, I hated it. I
would have given anything to be normal -- to be anyone other than me. I
wanted to blend in. Who doesn't?
I can't tell you the
number of times I thought, whispered, growled under my breath, "WHY does
everything have to be so freaking difficult for me?" After attempting
to open a window. To button my pants. To strain pasta.
But as I've become an
adult, as I worked through so much pain in writing my memoir, I began to
see that Struggle is not my enemy. In fact, I can thank Struggle for
developing in me many of the traits I like most about myself. And
Struggle in my life gives me the ability to teach my kids resilience.
Empathy. Determination. Hope. So many intangibles that a perfect mom
would not be able to model for her children.
Because I'm flawed, I
can perfectly prepare my kids to deal with the imperfect boss, the
imperfect spouse, the imperfect child. Because I am weak, my children
can see how little weakness can do to hold us back from living a life
filled with purpose.
Because I struggle in
front of them daily, my children will inherently know not to run from
the difficult things in life, because they see Struggle create in me
such gratitude and joy over even the smallest blessings. My children
have been dealt an awesome hand.
It's Mother's Day, and
you might be an imperfect mom. Don't be afraid! Don't wish you were
someone else. You're the mom your kids need most. You're the ideal
person to prepare your children to thrive in this often less-than-ideal
world.
I've heard it said that
your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness. But it could be
that your greatest weakness is your greatest strength -- as a parent, as
a person. Love an imperfect mom today, especially if that mom is you.
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