Mothers Lie
>
> By Lori Borgman
>
> Expectant mothers waiting for a newborns arrival say
they don't care
what sex
> the baby is. They just want 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 palate
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
him for a
checkup, 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?
>
> 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.
>
> Frankly, 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 the 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 neighbor, a friend, a woman I pass at
church and my
sister-in-law.
> You're a wonder.