Dear New Mom,
You don't know me, and if you saw me, you'd probably never realize who I am.
I'm the mom who was pushing her son in the wheelchair through the mall today, the one whose eyes you couldn't meet, whose child you did everything in your power to look away from as you pushed your likely days old baby in a stroller.
I just want you to know-I noticed. I saw the look. And I don't blame you. I'm not angry. I want to reach out to you and calm you.
I've seen that look a million times-when he could walk, but his feet weren't right, when he has a meltdown in the middle of the crowded store, when he drops to the ground, claps his hands over his ears and rocks back and forth, humming to himself to drown out the sensory input he can't handle. I've seen it even more in recent weeks since his surgery and the start of our use of a wheelchair.
It's the look of fear, the look of "Oh God, that could be my child!" Also known as the "Oh thank God that isn't me, that poor mother and child!" look. The look of utter horror and pity mingled.
Do you know the odds of your child turning out like mine? To have all his issues rolled into one child? Astronomical. It's not going to happen, most likely. We hit the jackpot; that doesn't happen often.
The odds of an autistic child? One in sixty-eight.
The odds of a child with cerebral palsy? One in two hundred seventy-eight.
The odds of a club footed child? One in a thousand.
The odds of a child with Von Willebrand's Disease? Only 1% of the population is affected.
The odds of a child with brain damage resulting from loss of oxygen at birth? Again, approximately one in a thousand.
And that's just the main things he has, the "big problems." The odds that your child will turn out like mine? Slim to none. He's pretty unique.
So. Back to The Look. I know it well, and so does he. We talk about that look anytime he sees it. He doesn't like it, but he is slowly beginning to understand why he gets it.
"It's because I'm different, isn't it, Mom?" he asked me today.
"Yes, it is because you're special."
I hate that he knows that look. I hate that he understands what it means. But I don't begrudge you your fear. I don't begrudge you that look, that inability to look at him, as you say a silent prayer that whatever happened to my son (for how could you, a stranger, possibly know?) doesn't happen to your peacefully sleeping infant child. I was you, once. Before all this, before we knew, before all holy hell broke loose in my life. I was you, the one who thought it would never happen to me, until it did.
I just want to reassure you, even though it did happen to me and my son, it's not likely to happen to you and your child.
Peace in your heart, Mama; enjoy your baby. He'll be fine.
Me
You don't know me, and if you saw me, you'd probably never realize who I am.
I'm the mom who was pushing her son in the wheelchair through the mall today, the one whose eyes you couldn't meet, whose child you did everything in your power to look away from as you pushed your likely days old baby in a stroller.
I just want you to know-I noticed. I saw the look. And I don't blame you. I'm not angry. I want to reach out to you and calm you.
I've seen that look a million times-when he could walk, but his feet weren't right, when he has a meltdown in the middle of the crowded store, when he drops to the ground, claps his hands over his ears and rocks back and forth, humming to himself to drown out the sensory input he can't handle. I've seen it even more in recent weeks since his surgery and the start of our use of a wheelchair.
It's the look of fear, the look of "Oh God, that could be my child!" Also known as the "Oh thank God that isn't me, that poor mother and child!" look. The look of utter horror and pity mingled.
Do you know the odds of your child turning out like mine? To have all his issues rolled into one child? Astronomical. It's not going to happen, most likely. We hit the jackpot; that doesn't happen often.
The odds of an autistic child? One in sixty-eight.
The odds of a child with cerebral palsy? One in two hundred seventy-eight.
The odds of a club footed child? One in a thousand.
The odds of a child with Von Willebrand's Disease? Only 1% of the population is affected.
The odds of a child with brain damage resulting from loss of oxygen at birth? Again, approximately one in a thousand.
And that's just the main things he has, the "big problems." The odds that your child will turn out like mine? Slim to none. He's pretty unique.
So. Back to The Look. I know it well, and so does he. We talk about that look anytime he sees it. He doesn't like it, but he is slowly beginning to understand why he gets it.
"It's because I'm different, isn't it, Mom?" he asked me today.
"Yes, it is because you're special."
I hate that he knows that look. I hate that he understands what it means. But I don't begrudge you your fear. I don't begrudge you that look, that inability to look at him, as you say a silent prayer that whatever happened to my son (for how could you, a stranger, possibly know?) doesn't happen to your peacefully sleeping infant child. I was you, once. Before all this, before we knew, before all holy hell broke loose in my life. I was you, the one who thought it would never happen to me, until it did.
I just want to reassure you, even though it did happen to me and my son, it's not likely to happen to you and your child.
Peace in your heart, Mama; enjoy your baby. He'll be fine.
Me
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