A Mother's Day Salute - A Little Late

[Guest guest]

Mothers of children with disabilities worthy of praise

By Lori Borgman Knight Ridder/Tribune News Service

Expectant mothers waiting for a newborn's arrival say they don't

care what sex the baby is. They just want it to have ten fingers

and ten toes.

Mothers lie.

Every mother wants so much more. She wants a perfectly

healthy baby with a round head, rosebud lips, button nose,

beautiful eyes and satin skin. She wants a baby so gorgeous

that people will pity the Gerber baby for being flat-out ugly.

She wants a baby that will roll over, sit up and take those first

steps right on schedule (according to the baby development

chart on page 57,column two). Every mother wants a baby that

can see, hear, run, jump and fire neurons by the billions. She

wants a kid that can smack the ball out of the park and do toe

points that are the envy of the entire ballet class. Call it greed if

you want, but a mother wants what a mother wants. Some

mothers get babies with something more.

Maybe you're one who got a baby with a condition you couldn't

pronounce, a spine that didn't fuse, a missing chromosome or a

palette that didn't close. The doctor's words took your breath

away. It was just like the time at recess in the fourth grade when

you didn't see the kick ball coming and it knocked the wind right

out of you.

Some of you left the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months,

even years later, took him in for a routine visit, or scheduled her

for a well check, and crashed head first into a brick wall as you

bore the brunt of devastating news. It didn't seem possible. That

didn't run in your family. Could this really be happening in your

lifetime?

I watch the Olympics for the sheer thrill of seeing finely sculpted

bodies. It's not a lust thing, it's a wondrous thing. They appear as

specimens without flaw -- muscles, strength and coordination all

working in perfect harmony. Then an athlete walks over to a tote

bag, rustles through the contents and pulls out an inhaler.

There's no such thing as a perfect body. Everybody will bear

something at some time or another. Maybe the affliction will be

apparent to curious eyes, or maybe it will be unseen, quietly

treated with trips to the doctor, therapy or surgery. Mothers of

children with disabilities live the limitations with them.

ly, I don't know how you do it. Sometimes you mothers

scare me. How you lift that kid in and out of the wheelchair twenty

times a day. How you monitor tests, track medications, and

serve as the gatekeeper to a hundred specialists yammering in

your ear.

I wonder how you endure the clichés and the platitudes, the

well-intentioned souls explaining how God is at work when

you've occasionally questioned if God is on strike. I even wonder

how you endure schmaltzy columns like this one -- saluting you,

painting you as hero and saint, when you know you're ordinary.

You snap, you bark, you bite. You didn't volunteer for this, you

didn't jump up and down in the motherhood line yelling, " Choose

me, God. Choose me! I've got what it takes. "

You're a woman who doesn't have time to step back and put

things in perspective, so let me do it for you.

From where I sit, you're way ahead of the pack. You've developed

the strength of a draft horse while holding onto the delicacy of a

daffodil. You have a heart that melts like chocolate in a glove box

in July, counter-balanced against the stubbornness of an Ozark

mule.

You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a

disability. You're a neighbour, a friend, a woman I pass at church

and my sister-in-law. You're a wonder.