Archives for posts with tag: Special mom

They say that one of the most distinctive smells in the world are the smell of crayons and play-dough.  They say that once we smell it, the brain recognizes it and kind of takes you to your memories of the the times you used it.  Like childhood.

Well, we loved and love our playdough.

Emily and I sat for hours sculpting and molding it.  We spent so much time relaxing and creating.

Michael and I sat for hours crushing and smooshing any and all creations.  It was the boy version of creating and relaxing.

But for Elizabeth, playdough did not hold any allure.  In fact, it was simply a source of frustration.  I think this was in part because if its texture and that her dyspraxia did not allow her hands to move and work as she wished.  Also, because natural curiosity is not the strong point of dyspraxic people, creating and the like, was simply hard work for her.

It was not until we started with our first Occupational therapist and Mary that we discovered Read the rest of this entry »

Good afternoon! Today we wanted to share a poem by Erma Bombeck, posted by Diane on her blog 5 Little Monkeys. To all the special mothers out there, you have all our support!!!

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The Special Mother 

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice,

a few by social pressure and a couple by habit.

This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children.

Did you ever wonder how these mothers are chosen?

Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth

Selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation.

As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.

“Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew.”

“Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia.”

“Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint…give her Gerard. He’s used to profanity.”

Finally he passes a name to an angel and smiles. “Give her a handicapped child.”

The angel is curious. “Why this one, God? She’s so happy.”

“Exactly,” smiles God. “Could I give a handicapped child a mother who knows no laughter?

That would be cruel.”

“But does she have the patience?” asks the angel.

“I don’t want her to have too much patience, or she’ll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair.

Once the shock and resentment wear off she’ll handle it.”

“I watched her today.

She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother.

You see, the child I’m going to give her has a world of it’s own.

She has to make it live in her world, and that’s not going to be easy.”

“But Lord, I don’t think she even believes in you.”

God smiles. “No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness.”

The angel gasps, “Selfishness? Is that a virtue?”

God nods. “If she can’t separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive.

Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she is to be envied.

She will never take for granted a spoken word.

She will never consider a step ordinary.

When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it.

I will permit her to see clearly the things I see–ignorance, cruelty,

prejudice–and allow her to rise above them.

She will never be alone.

I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life

Because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side.”

“And what about her Patron Saint?” asks the angel, his pen poised in the air. God smiles.

“A mirror will suffice.”

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