Pro-tips for those of you who are in the “Who Can Be the Most Sacrificial Mom” competition that seems to be thriving out there:

1. I do NOT drive kids to school when there’s a bus available. I told my kids that it was bad for the environment to have hundreds of parents driving their kids to school when they could all go on one bus. Truth was, I hated rush hour and waiting in carline. Now, if you have a science project to take to school, I’ll drive you to the bus stop. I’m not a monster.
2. Speaking of which, if you miss the bus, you shall pay me in cold hard cash (or chores) for the chauffer service. And I will lecture you the entire way to school because it’s my right. You made me late to Crossfit, dammit.
3. I stopped going to back to school nights, parent-teacher conferences, etc. a decade ago. I know that everything in education is still stuck in the dark ages, but can we all just agree that we don’t need to meet in person like is 1865? Send me an email, call me (I probably won’t answer), or ask me to come in if there’s a problem.
4. I refuse to make fancy, homemade treats for parties. Oh, I was a 25 year old mom once and everything I brought to every event was Martha Stewart level awesome. But I got tired of working my butt off for 4^th grade ingrates. My kids know to sign up for chips or paper goods, or something that can be purchased at Costco.
5. The exception to rule 4 is the occasional education of their classmates as to what constitutes good food. I’ve been known to have an entire 6^th grade class come to my house to learn how to roll tortillas, taught a couple of kindergarten classes how to make individual homemade apple pies using local apples, and driven across town to buy $150 worth of REAL croissants for a French class party. It’s my contribution to humanity.
6. No I will not bring your forgotten homework/lunch/musical instrument/field trip form unless I’m already going to town and near your school on an errand. If you really need it, my rate is $5 per forgotten item. (Note: Once I took this too far and refused to bring Macie another shirt after she had a bloody nose. She promptly called my best friend, her “nice” mom, who not only brought her clothes, but a Lululemon jacket. I have not lived this down to this day.)
7. I don’t check homework, and only check grades often enough to let you know if you’re grounded or not. If you want to fail Algebra, fine, but you’ll have no social life until it’s fixed. These new apps that let you know the second your child misses an assignment are going to be the downfall of Western civilization.
8. I also don’t help with homework unless the child begs, pleads, or sobs. I already finished sophomore year. I hated it then and I don’t want to repeat it.
9. I will go to all of your concerts, games, and poetry competitions, but I won’t bring you a bouquet of flowers like you just played a concert at the Met.
10. My bedtime is 9pm. I don’t drive, help with homework, or take you to Walmart because you forgot tomorrow is field day after 8pm. If you’ve been an absolute doll this week, I might push it to 10 on the weekend (once per weekend). What I WILL do is stand in freezing drizzle at Red Rocks with you to watch The Fray, drive through a blizzard to get us to John Mayer, rent an airbnb to take you and your friends to ComicCon, or fly with you to Vegas to see Justin Beiber.

So, are my kids awesome? Well, they still like me, which is good, and they regularly show up on the Dean’s list and leadership councils. They’re super independent (one might argue TOO independent). They do their own school shopping. They don’t wait around for others to make decisions. They never ask me for money. So I’d say my selfish, lazy parenting allowed them to be the independent, amazing young women that they are. You’re welcome, children.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I don’t have it all together. You know those times I posted a picture with pride, or said we’re doing just fine, or made it look easy to parent a kid with a disability? That might have been a straight up lie, or it might have been me just trying to convince myself that I was qualified to do this job, or maybe we were finally having a good day.

But you see, the world is set up in such a way that people with disabilities, specifically my kid, are handed the short end of the stick day after day – and that’s if anyone bothers to hand them a stick at all. I have to watch her get looked over again and again: in jobs, by the waitress at the restaurant, in love.

What I do have going for me is that most of the time, I see potential. I see beauty in my kid and how quickly she picks up languages and how hard working she is. And I forget that the rest of the world looks at her and sees, first and foremost, the disability.

And so I am going on my merry way, thinking we’re okay, when reality hits. A boy toys with her affection, is verbally abusive. A boss refuses to give her tasks I know she’s capable of doing. A waitress asks me what she wants instead of her. Someone almost pushes her over in the grocery store and gets mad at me for defending her (I admit, I was a little…honey badger-ish.)

In those times, I fall into the vortex of thinking like they do. Of wondering if my kid will ever have the life they deserve, rather than the one they didn’t ask for. I start seeing limits instead of possibilities.

And at these times, I will admit it to you: I NEED HELP.

I need you to question me further when I say we’re just fine.

I need you to beat the bushes with me, leaning on your own contacts, to help me find her a job, a doctor, a boyfriend.

I need you to give me a hug when the world is unfair.

I need you to understand that I’m not uniquely qualified or gifted to do this; I’m totally faking it, and I’m just as flummoxed as you would be if it was your kid.

I need you to stop treating me like a saint; I’m not.

I need you to be angry with me that the world is shitty and unfair; that all else being equal, my kid gets passed over through no fault of her own.

I need you to stop saying, “You’re the perfect mother for a kid with a disability.”

I need you to remind me what I’m doing right, because I forget every day, and focus on everything I’ve done wrong.

I need you to vote for people who will respect my child and improve their quality of life.

I need you (the great big YOU out there, world,) to give my kid a chance in the workplace.

I need you to give my child meaningful employment. She can do a lot more than wash dishes.

I need you to offer to give me a break, to help with my responsibilities.

I need you to understand that every day, I’m on high alert for discrimination, and that it makes me chronically anxious. And sometimes that makes me short and cranky with you.

I need you to invest in resources that help my kid, and other kids like my kid.

I would really love to cheerfully say that I can do this by myself, that I’ve got this. You certainly are under no obligation to do help me in any way. I can limp along.

But if I’m being honest here, I need for you to take Herman Melville’s quote to heart:

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects.”

Your kid doesn’t have a disability. And I’m happy for that, and I know you have a million other things to think about in raising them. But I truly believe in the South African concept of Ubuntu – “I am because we are.” We are all better when we can pitch in our resources and help each other hold up half the sky.

You can make a difference for my kid, and for me.

I would be so grateful; and I will return the same to you in spades.

I couldn’t look at her face

One more day.

Her cry was weak

My milk no longer strong enough

For a toddler

But I had no choice

No options

No food.

*

And the eldest one

11, a child-

a man with a gun

had grabbed her

had…touched her

had laughed

and I knew next time

it wouldn’t be just touch

*

every day was a struggle

a battle

just to eat

to feed my daughters

to protect them

from evil men

and so I ran.

*

I put our lives in the hands

Of a man I didn’t know

For 1000 small coins

I had squirreled away

From carrying garbage

*

And the journey was one

I could never repeat

But I repeated

“It will be worth it”

even as the man took me

my breasts heavy with milk

dripping as my baby sat in

her sister’s arms.

They were both crying

But he had said me,

Or her.

So it was me.

*

These girls are my life

I will give my life

I thought

It will be worth it.

*

We reached the end

And I thanked God

And wrapped my arms around my girls

And cried with joy.

We had reached the promised land.

*

The man turned to leave us and said

Cross there

When the sun goes down.

I said, “Wait, with you?”

He laughed

And squeezed my breast

And said, “Don’t you wish”

*

I had lost the ability

To even flinch

From the indignities

*

We hid until the sun

Dropped below

And then hid longer.

When all was quiet

We hid longer.

*

And then I woke her

And didn’t wake the baby,

Strapped her to my chest,

And we walked where

He had pointed.

*

The lights were blinding

The yells deafening

Chaos filled the quiet night

*

I grabbed for her

And they grabbed for her

and she was screaming

“No! No entiendes!”

And they didn’t understand

As they dragged her away.

*

And they asked me questions

And I was sobbing for her

And desperate to find to her

And they were unwrapping the baby

And I was clutching her

And I was screaming

And she was screaming

And I was holding her

So tightly I thought I would break her

And they wrenched my wrists

And they tied them

And they took her

Her little legs kicking

Her little nails scratching

Her little teeth biting

And I screamed

And her screams stopped

When the car door closed

And my milk drenched my shirt

A waste.

*

Photo by Roi Dimor on Unsplash

Granted, it’s been a stressful couple of weeks, and I already have to defend my cooking nightly to my youngest. She came wandering into the kitchen as I was scrambling to cook dinner (and oh, P.S., hold the world together).

She innocently (?) said, “Hmm. It smells like coconut?” Now, I know she hates coconut, but she didn’t know I was using coconut flour to cook her favorite meal, chicken tenders. I snapped, “Yeah? Well it is! And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it!” (And by snapped, I mean yelled.)

She quietly turned around and went into her room and shut the door. That’s when I knew it. I was going to have to apologize. I opened the door and peeked in and saw her – my almost 14 year old with her favorite blanket wrapped around her neck, laying in bed.

It’s nothing short of momentous, that feeling you get when they place a child in your arms. In my case, a couple of times the person handing me a baby was a nurse, a couple of times it was in a foreign country by a civil affairs officer. Three of my babies were so new they couldn’t walk or talk, two others were full blown children who marched up to me, looked at me with appraising eyes, and gave me a hug as if to give me a chance. It doesn’t really matter how they came to me, I remember thinking, with each one, “I will NEVER hurt you, or allow anyone else to hurt you.”

But it happens: the very same innocent little beings entrusted to my care become the repository of the rage and stress I’m not dealing very well with in my life. It’s like being mad at Donald Trump and taking it out on your kitten. We’re talking ugly stuff, people, and I’m not proud of it.

I get it. We have bad days. Stress closes in and chokes us so much that we lash out at the people we least intend to hurt. It’s not an excuse, but maybe it’s an explanation. And short of a personality transplant, I don’t imagine this is the last time I’ll ever make this mistake.

The important thing is that an apology – a heartfelt apology – teaches our kids about humility and grace, something not seen very often in the world these days. It teaches them that adults can be sucky, but it doesn’t have anything to do with them. They didn’t do anything wrong, their mom is just being an asshole at the moment. It allows them to stop beating themselves up for being horrible and go back to being a kid.

She didn’t leap into my arms with gratitude for my apology. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and gave me a thumbs up. I slunk back out with my tail between my legs, and breathed a sigh of relief when she came and sat next to me on the couch  a little later to tell me about her day.

Believe me, I’ve resolved this week to take a deep breath before reacting to the people I love. I’m determined to return to my gentleness. But when I mess up, and I know I will, I will say I’m sorry. Then I’ll say it to myself, and be gentle there, too.

Photo by Blaise Vonlanthen on Unsplash