To the Mom Whose Child Has A Disability

I see you.  Whether you’re twenty-seven or sixty-two, I see you.

I see your strength from the moment you introduce yourself as so-and-so’s mom, and you amaze me. I see how you’re so busy looking in awe at your child, and at the obstacles that he/she has overcome, that you forget to look at yourself and see your own stamina. I want to cup your face in my hand for three seconds and make you see your own reflection in my eyes, from my perspective. I see a hero. Immerse yourself in it. You deserve it. 

I see you at the meetings that I, just a kid myself, host to tell you about your kid. I swear, I want to turn to you in front of all of my bosses and say, “We’re a team, but please, you’re the captain. Tell us what your kid deserves and what he/she needs. Tell me what you need,” and I’ll tell you what I know you deserve: everything. 

I see the hope in your eyes when you know that your kid would benefit from certain services, so you meet us in the middle, based upon the little that we claim we are able to give. You cling to this hope, because what more can you do? You oblige when we say that we’ll give you less than what you know your kid deserves, because it’s better than nothing and because you’re scared that rocking the boat will cause you to lose our respect. Then what will happen to your kid? You’re at the mercy of a system that only cares about the bottom line. Yes, I see all of this, too.

My co-workers warn me not to get attached, as if I can turn myself into robot-mode and forget that I’d love to meet with you over coffee and be friends. Besides, I already texted you last week on my personal phone and asked you if you’d be interested. 

And you said yes. 

“You don’t get paid enough. No one wants to do this for my kid for the rest of their life. I get that.” Beneath your kind words, you wonder who will do this for your kid when you’re gone, and I’ll bet that sometimes you cry about it. 

You're tired. You're too busy. You're scared, and sometimes you're even lonely. But you hold none of this against your kid. You say, "I'm just being a mom." I say, "You're remarkable. You're my hero."

I want to work with you. I want to team up with you. I want to be there for you. Your kid is your priority, and you're mine. 

I want to dry the ugly tears and listen while you process the hard questions and make the difficult decisions. I want you to trust me. I want to be your friend, because not everyone understands. 

I got you.