Different, But the Same

On Friday we had our first MOPS meeting of the new school year. This is my (gulp!) sixth year doing MOPS and I've always enjoyed it. Over time, I've seen my role change and grow. First I was a newer mom, and while not the youngest in the room, I certainly had less parenting experience than a lot of people there. In the past year or two, I've noticed I've drifted up to the "seasoned mom" bracket. There are new moms in their twenties coming in, with newborns. I'm in a different place now. I can offer my so-called expertise, and at the same time can't always relate to their lives-with-very-little-ones.

This year, I've found I have a new role. It feels kind of unnatural and not quite formed, like one of Anna's new teeth coming in. I'm the special needs mom. I know I have something to teach, something to show, something to learn. Just what? I'm working on that.

In some moments at MOPS, I was just a mom like any mom. I have kids yet want to have a life outside of them. I enjoyed sharing about myself, learning about others, and swapping ideas about this whole crazy adventure. Yet, there were moments...

...like watching the video, and hearing the mom lament good-naturedly about the mischief her kids were getting into. I kept looking at the toys everywhere and thinking, I would LOVE for Ethan to do that -- to dump out every toy and explore each one. To experience more of that sheer curiosity of childhood.

...or someone complaining about their kids fighting all of the time. I couldn't help but think, If Anna and Ethan fought a lot, that would mean they'd be interacting more. That would be annoying yes, but wonderful at the same time.

...or the mom on the video again, talking about how she would like to foster her son's interests and dreams, and teach him to grow and go out into the world on his own. My first thought was, Can my son be anything he wants to be? Will he ever be totally independent?

Going to MOPS most certainly reminds me that there are issues with having a special needs child that go over many peoples' heads -- and that's not their fault. These are the types of thoughts you just wouldn't entertain unless they were right in front of you, right in the center of your heart.

But the story doesn't end there.

At the beginning of Friday's meeting we did an icebreaker in which we asked each other different questions written on index cards. One was, "Talk about something cute your child did recently." I stared at the card, and nothing came to mind really about either kid, but Ethan in particular. That fact gave me pause, and the more I stood there thinking, I realized I was bothered not because Ethan hadn't done anything "cute," but because in reality there were plenty of things I could have mentioned, but perhaps held myself back because someone else might not have seen it as cute, might not have understood. "Ethan's learning to sing "Doe a Deer," I could have said, and yeah he'll be three in a few months but this is big, considering he couldn't string words together in a song until a few months ago. I could have told them about his affinity for storm drains or that he loves the triangle shadow the door to his room creates at night. I could have mentioned how he loves the dolls at Target because they all are motion-sensored and start chatting and talking at once and he thinks that's just crazy, or the way he loves to pound on the keyboard.

I could have and should have said any one of these things, because in truth, who is to judge what is cute, which stories are worthy to share, and what deserves to be celebrated? Ethan may be different, but he has a story to tell, he has a purpose, and he has funny and cute and adorable things that he does. They just might need a little more explaining. But they are still wonderful in their own right.

And could it be that others need to hear Ethan's stories, my stories? That by being silent I am holding someone back from developing more compassion and understanding for those without typical kids?

When I went to drop Ethan off in the nursery that morning, I was prepared. I had my notes on Ethan in case someone new was there. I had tips on toys that he liked, how to calm any crying, about his obession with the garage door toy when he's nervous and phobia of static on the TV.

"Oh yeah, we know Ethan," said one of the women. "I never even noticed that we had to do anything different for him," she said, which kind of left me suprised.

"Well, these are his notes," I said, waving my crinkled paper, "because he does have his quirks."

"Don't we all?" she asked with a wry smile, this older, wizened woman who has gone through some very serious health struggles in recent times. I knew in some ways she was wondering what all the fuss was about.

Why be normal? questioned a pin I used to wear back in junior high, which was a joke since I spent most of my life then and long after trying to fit in to just that definition. This sounds like a lesson in self-esteem that I might have learned in school back then, but what can I say? Being different is not the worst destiny that can befall a person. And most of the time, the gulf between different and not, normal and "quirky," is smaller than we've been led to believe.