I am raising a child who is not my own.
He is my flesh and blood. I am his mother. He is my son. But for nearly all of his life, we have deferred to experts to tell us what to do with him. One of them says take him to this therapy. Obediently, we go. Another one says, no, what you really need is this program. So we turn around. A third one says, what you really need is medication. And off we go to explore that path.
Ultimately, every decision is up to us. And we don’t go blindly down any new road without consideration. But from the very first day I became a parent, my child’s life depended on the expertise of other people. I couldn’t help him. No one could show me how, not then. And so began his life, being raised by smart people with long, useful degrees.
Maybe that’s how every parent feels, even parents with typical children. I wouldn’t know. My atypical child is my firstborn, and I have only ever known this life.
My son gets a cough, and I take him to the doctor, knowing we will either go home or to the ER, depending what the doctors find. Depending on what they decide we will do. I am grateful to live in an area with so many experts available. I am grateful because my son is still not mine to raise, even at four years old. I don’t know what the right call is. Sometimes I can guess the right one. But it’s up to the professionals.
My son doesn’t eat well enough to keep him healthy, and I take him to the doctor. They tell us how to fix it. They tell us what we will do next. I nod my head and take notes and begin living this new phase of our life.
My son doesn’t walk the way he is supposed to, and I take him to the doctor. This is a problem that will have to be given to a new expert. They tell us to go to therapy. We are lucky to have these therapists in our lives. The therapists give us directions, and we follow them, finding ways to add exercises and build skills. Our days are busy, but they told us we need to do it all.
My son doesn’t go to many playdates. We should go to more, but we’re out of time. The experts told us we had to get so much done. There aren’t enough hours in the day. But we need their help for my son to thrive. We should go to more playdates. He would like more playdates. Maybe if I tried harder, he could. I should ask the doctors about that.
This is the secret life of the special needs mom. It isn’t a bad life. It isn’t a life to be pitied. It is a life filled with waiting – waiting for the next steps, the next lab results, the next expert to show us how to do better. We are glad for the help. We know we can’t do it without them. So we wait. We know we have to be patient. Waiting is the only way to learn where we will be sent next.
But it’s a strange thing, to raise a child who is not yours. Who is yours, but only between appointments. It makes us feel sad, and happy, and lonely, and loved. It’s a delicate balance. We must always be careful to schedule, but be flexible; be accommodating, but firm; juggle, but take time for ourselves. We must remember that all of this will be worth it, in the end, for our child to be the very best version of himself. We must know that perspective is key – we are not the only ones who suffer. We must learn to ask for help, and learn to do things on our own. We just have to try our best.
At least, that’s what the experts say.
I am raising a child who is not my own.
thepluckyprocrastinator 