[Fwd: Please read this!!!!]

[Guest guest]

Hope noone minds me posting this.

>

> To You, My Sisters

> © Maureen K. Higgins

>

> Many of you I have never even met face to face, but I've searched you out

every day. I've looked for you on the internet, on playgrounds and in grocery

stores. I've become an expert at identifying you. You are well worn. You are

stronger than you ever wanted to be. Your words ring experience, experience you

culled with your very heart and soul. You are compassionate beyond the

expectations of this world. You are my " sisters. "

>

> Yes, you and I, my friend, are sisters in a sorority. A very elite sorority.

We are special. Just like any other sorority, we were chosen to be members. Some

of us were invited to join immediately, some not for months or even years. Some

of us even tried to refuse membership, but to no avail.

>

> We were initiated in neurologist's offices and NICU units, in obstetrician's

offices, in emergency rooms, and during ultrasounds. We were initiated with

somber telephone calls, consultations, evaluations, blood tests, x-rays, MRI

films, and heart surgeries.

>

> All of us have one thing in common. One day things were fine. We were

pregnant, or we had just given birth, or we were nursing our newborn, or we were

playing with our toddler. Yes, one minute everything was fine. Then, whether it

happened in an instant, as it often does, or over the course of a few weeks or

months, our entire lives changed. Something wasn't quite right. Then we found

ourselves mothers of children with special needs.

>

> We are united, we sisters, regardless of the diversity of our children's

special needs. Some of our children ungergo chemotherapy. Some need respirators

and ventilators. Some are unable to talk, some are unable to walk. Some eat

through feeding tubes. Some live in a different world. We do not discriminate

against those mothers whose children's needs are not as " special " as our

child's. We have mutual respect and empathy for all the women who walk in our

shoes.

>

> We are knowledgeable. We have educated ourselves with whatever materials we

could find. We know " the " specialists in the field. We know " the " neurologists,

" the " hospitals, " the " wonder drugs, " the " treatments. We know " the " tests that

need to be done, we know " the " degenerative and progressive diseases and we hold

our breath while our children are tested for them. Without formal education, we

could become board certified in neurology, endocrinology, and physiatry.

>

> We have taken on our insurance companies and school boards to get what our

children need to survive, and to flourish. We have prevailed upon the State to

include augmentative communication devices in special education classes and

mainstream schools for our children with cerebral palsy. We have labored to

prove to insurance companies the medical necessity of gait trainers and other

adaptive equipment for our children with spinal cord defects. We have sued

municipalities to have our children properly classified so they could receive

education and evaluation commensurate with their diagnosis.

>

> We have learned to deal with the rest of the world, even if that means walking

away from it. We have tolerated scorn in supermarkets during " tantrums " and

gritted our teeth while discipline was advocated by the person behind us on

line. We have tolerated inane suggestions and home remedies from well-meaning

strangers. We have tolerated mothers of children without special needs

complaining about chicken pox and ear infections. We have learned that many of

our closest friends can't understand what it's like to be in our sorority, and

don't even want to try.

>

> We have our own personal copies of Perl Kingsley's " A Trip To Holland "

and Erma Bombeck's " The Special Mother. " We keep them by our bedside and read

and reread them during our toughest hours.

>

> We have coped with holidays. We have found ways to get our physically

handicapped children to the neighbors' front doors on Halloween, and we have

found ways to help our deaf children form the words, " trick or treat. " We have

accepted that our children with sensory dysfunction will never wear velvet or

lace on Christmas. We have painted a canvas of lights and a blazing yule log

with our words for our blind children. We have pureed turkey on Thanksgiving. We

have bought white chocolate bunnies for Easter. And all the while, we have tried

to create a festive atmosphere for the rest of our family.

>

> We've gotten up every morning since our journey began wondering how we'd make

it through another day, and gone to bed every evening not sure how we did it.

>

> We've mourned the fact that we never got to relax and sip red wine in Italy.

We've mourned the fact that our trip to Holland has required much more baggage

than we ever imagined when we first visited the travel agent. And we've mourned

because we left for the airport without most of the things we needed for the

trip.

>

> But we, sisters, we keep the faith always. We never stop believing. Our love

for our special children and our belief in all that they will achieve in life

knows no bounds. We dream of them scoring touchdowns and extra points and home

runs. We visualize them running sprints and marathons. We dream of them planting

vegetable seeds, riding horses and chopping down trees. We hear their angelic

voices singing Christmas carols. We see their palettes smeared with watercolors,

and their fingers flying over ivory keys in a concert hall. We are amazed at the

grace of their pirouettes. We never, never stop believing in all they will

accomplish as they pass through this world.

>

> But in the meantime, my sisters, the most important thing we do, is hold tight

to their little hands as together, we special mothers and our special children,

reach for the stars.

>

>

[Guest guest]

THIS MADE ME CRY!

It is so true, blessings to all the moms that can relate

> Many of you I have never even met face to face, but I've searched you out

every day. I've looked for you on the internet, on playgrounds and in grocery

stores. I've become an expert at identifying you. You are well worn. You are

stronger than you ever wanted to be. Your words ring experience, experience

you culled with your very heart and soul. You are compassionate beyond the

expectations of this world. You are my " sisters. "

>

> Yes, you and I, my friend, are sisters in a sorority. A very elite

sorority. We are special. Just like any other sorority, we were chosen to be

members. Some of us were invited to join immediately, some not for months or

even

years. Some of us even tried to refuse membership, but to no avail.

>

> We were initiated in neurologist's offices and NICU units, in

obstetrician's offices, in emergency rooms, and during ultrasounds. We were

initiated

with somber telephone calls, consultations, evaluations, blood tests, x-rays,

MRI films, and heart surgeries.

>

> All of us have one thing in common. One day things were fine. We were

pregnant, or we had just given birth, or we were nursing our newborn, or we

were

playing with our toddler. Yes, one minute everything was fine. Then, whether

it happened in an instant, as it often does, or over the course of a few

weeks or months, our entire lives changed. Something wasn't quite right. Then we

found ourselves mothers of children with special needs.

>

> We are united, we sisters, regardless of the diversity of our children's

special needs. Some of our children ungergo chemotherapy. Some need

respirators and ventilators. Some are unable to talk, some are unable to walk.

Some eat

through feeding tubes. Some live in a different world. We do not

discriminate against those mothers whose children's needs are not as " special "

as our

child's. We have mutual respect and empathy for all the women who walk in our

shoes.

>

> We are knowledgeable. We have educated ourselves with whatever materials

we could find. We know " the " specialists in the field. We know " the "

neurologists, " the " hospitals, " the " wonder drugs, " the " treatments. We know

" the "

tests that need to be done, we know " the " degenerative and progressive diseases

and we hold our breath while our children are tested for them. Without formal

education, we could become board certified in neurology, endocrinology, and

physiatry.

>

> We have taken on our insurance companies and school boards to get what our

children need to survive, and to flourish. We have prevailed upon the State

to include augmentative communication devices in special education classes

and mainstream schools for our children with cerebral palsy. We have labored to

prove to insurance companies the medical necessity of gait trainers and

other adaptive equipment for our children with spinal cord defects. We have

sued

municipalities to have our children properly classified so they could receive

education and evaluation commensurate with their diagnosis.

>

> We have learned to deal with the rest of the world, even if that means

walking away from it. We have tolerated scorn in supermarkets during " tantrums "

and gritted our teeth while discipline was advocated by the person behind us

on line. We have tolerated inane suggestions and home remedies from

well-meaning strangers. We have tolerated mothers of children without special

needs

complaining about chicken pox and ear infections. We have learned that many of

our closest friends can't understand what it's like to be in our sorority,

and don't even want to try.

>

> We have our own personal copies of Perl Kingsley's " A Trip To

Holland " and Erma Bombeck's " The Special Mother. " We keep them by our bedside

and

read and reread them during our toughest hours.

>

> We have coped with holidays. We have found ways to get our physically

handicapped children to the neighbors' front doors on Halloween, and we have

found ways to help our deaf children form the words, " trick or treat. " We have

accepted that our children with sensory dysfunction will never wear velvet or

lace on Christmas. We have painted a canvas of lights and a blazing yule log

with our words for our blind children. We have pureed turkey on Thanksgiving.

We have bought white chocolate bunnies for Easter. And all the while, we have

tried to create a festive atmosphere for the rest of our family.

>

> We've gotten up every morning since our journey began wondering how we'd

make it through another day, and gone to bed every evening not sure how we did

it.

>

> We've mourned the fact that we never got to relax and sip red wine in

Italy. We've mourned the fact that our trip to Holland has required much more

baggage than we ever imagined when we first visited the travel agent. And we've

mourned because we left for the airport without most of the things we needed

for the trip.

>

> But we, sisters, we keep the faith always. We never stop believing. Our

love for our special children and our belief in all that they will achieve in

life knows no bounds. We dream of them scoring touchdowns and extra points and

home runs. We visualize them running sprints and marathons. We dream of them

planting vegetable seeds, riding horses and chopping down trees. We hear

their angelic voices singing Christmas carols. We see their palettes smeared

with watercolors, and their fingers flying over ivory keys in a concert hall.

We

are amazed at the grace of their pirouettes. We never, never stop believing

in all they will accomplish as they pass through this world.

>

> But in the meantime, my sisters, the most important thing we do, is hold

tight to their little hands as together, we special mothers and our special

children, reach for the stars.

>