Stories of the heart

Last night, we met the Beanes for dinner. Even though we had called ahead for seating, there were a million people at the restaurant, so we waited outside for almost an hour.

I believe God places people in our paths for a reason. Just like every other mystery in this life, sometimes we don't know what purpose these relationships serve. But, serve they do. I have faith in that belief.

Last night, we put Olivia in the loaner wheelchair. The stroller is just too small and her feet get caught in the wheels. She's also too big for most high chairs (as evidenced by the fact that we had to actually use a screwdriver to take apart the high chair at a restaurant at the beach just to get her out...). With seven people, we knew we would end up at a table instead of a booth, and we hoped the wheelchair could serve as her chair at the table. Side note: We are getting to the stage where she is too big for "baby seating", but can't sit on her own. Yet another milestone I haven't been excited about reaching...

So, we're waiting outside and I see others (children and adults) glancing our way, spending a few extra seconds looking at my daughter in her chair. It's okay. It's human nature to people watch. I know some folks are very sensitive about people looking or asking questions, but I'm pretty much an open book, so I don't mind.

Stef, who loves my children as if they were hers, is talking and playing with Olivia, getting her to say things like "big, red dog." (She's our in-house speech therapist. She gets Olivia to say more than any of us can.) Out of the corner of my eye, I see a lady easing closer to us and she finally asks how old O is. Next thing I know, I'm meeting her daughter, a child just a few months younger than Olivia who has cerebral palsy. We talk for a long time, swapping stories with the ease that comes when you meet someone who understands the journey you're on.

We talk about AFO's and Medicaid and the CAP program. We discuss special-needs preschool programs and pull-ups and sign language. I realize I'm looking in the mirror when I see the love and fear and compassion and anxiety in her eyes.

We exchanged email addresses and phone numbers. Two mothers living in the same village of raising special-needs babies.

By the time we head inside to be seated, we had taken Olivia out of the wheelchair to hold her for a while. Brian steered the chair inside while Stef carried O. An older gentleman, waiting for his own table, held the door open for us. He stops me as I walk by. "May I ask who the wheelchair is for?" "My daughter," I reply. He asks what her condition is, and I give the short version of the story that is my mystery girl. He then asks if I had ever heard of or been to a Shriner's hospital. I explain that we had just filled out the paperwork recently to apply to Shriner's after having a Shriner sign to sponsor us. This kind man was genuinely happy to hear that we were already involved in the process of visiting a Shriner's hospital. I said, "You must be a Shriner." "Yes, I am," he said. I thanked him and told him I appreciated his kind gesture to stop me and offer help for my daughter.

Dinner was delicious. Spending time with Stef, Daron, and Jacsyn was wonderful. And the kindness of strangers was an unexpected blessing. Thank you God, for placing people in my path and reminding me that there is good in this world.

After dinner, we shopped for a little while before heading home. While waiting near the checkout line, I noticed a man picking his nose. My first thought was, Seriously, there are dozens of people right here. Could you be a bit more subtle? In the next few seconds, I realized he was a special-needs adult. (Not normal, different, disabled, mentally retarded... even living this journey hasn't helped me know what the right words are...)

There are some moments that take my breath away. Moments like this one, where I see a grown man unknowingly making others around him feel uncomfortable. Moments like this one, when I envision this man as a baby. When he was little and most likely had complete strangers wanting to talk to him, hold him, and pray for him. And now, as an adult, when others see him picking his nose and turn their heads, not knowing what to say to him or do for him. When he no longer fits in toddler clothes and diapers, and is avoided by most folks that cross his path.

Why do I fear the future? Haven't I learned a million times over that I must live in today and not spend time imagining how I'll handle things twenty years from now? I've gotten better, thanks to Zoloft and therapy and prayer and a great husband and my support system. But, when I least expect it, I find myself looking at a grown man flapping his arms and my mind spins out of control, fearful of how my daughter might also be avoided as an adult. Fearful that my precious miracle of a child, the one who has changed my life in ways I'll never be able to explain, the one who has altered my soul, will grow to be a woman who is surrounded by strangers who don't want to make eye contact.

Oh, how my heart aches in those moments. What else can I do but pray? Pray that I make the most of opportunities to talk to others about Olivia so that they can understand the need for acceptance and compassion. Pray that I focus on today and not about the unknown. Pray for other families as they struggle like me, that we all may find peace.

It's Mother's Day. I can't begin to explain how motherhood has changed me. During those first precious moments when I held my newborn son in my arms, I knew I understood what other mothers meant when they said your life changes forever when you give birth. But I've come to realize that moment was just the beginning.

If you look at my heart now, you'll see it has expanded a little every single day just to hold the love I have for these babies. It is covered with scars from the heartaches of motherhood. Moments like sending your son to kindergarten and watching your daughter cry while stretching tight muscles. My heart is stronger, able to withstand (though barely, sometimes) the day-to-day battles of raising children who are trying to grow and find their way in this world. My heart is wiser. Despite learning some lessons the hard way, I've come to realize that some battles aren't worth fighting and some battles must be fought, that I can't do this without God, and that I was chosen to be the mother of Jacob and Olivia.

My heart is full.

Happy Mother's Day.