Sometimes, I do not think I can be the parent of a special needs child. I do not think I have the patience. I certainly do not posess the grace.
Sometimes I struggle with the repetitive ‘conversations’. The same pretend words. The same charades. The same sounds. A small bank of figurative language that is suppose to create and sustain and grow a child… and a parent with that child.
Sometimes I miss what caused the tears. Fewer words = more exaggerated emotions. A loud noise? A quick fall? Too little sleep? Too much sleep? Hunger? Boredom? Sometimes, they all look the same.
Sometimes I stay awake wondering what we are missing… what would make things better… what could find her voice. I wonder if it would come faster if we tried harder… if there weren’t other bills to pay… if there weren’t another child to care for. I wonder if we are meant to find it at all or if we are simply supposed to obey and work hard, regardless of the outcome.
Sometimes I forget to care. I assume people are doing their respective jobs… in church, in therapy, in conferences. I take a break from thinking, from scheduling, from researching, from calling back.
And then, sometimes, I forget there is anything remotely different at all. Her laughter, her play, her mischief, her tantrums are like any other child’s. I am tired, like any other parent. I am selfish, like any other parent. I have good days, and I have bad days. Like any other parent.
There is truth in both. She is the same and different. I am perfect for this job, I am perfect for her, we are imperfect in general. We are a normal family… with many strengths and many weaknesses.
“Does a clay pot ever argue with its maker? Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying, ‘Stop, you are doing it wrong!’ Does the pot exclaim, ‘How clumsy can you be!’ How terrible it would be if a newborn baby said to its father and mother, ‘Why was I born? Why did you make me this way?’” —Isaiah 45:9-10
There is so much we do not know, Little One. So much that will always be a mystery. But, we have this hope, this faith, this gift of a Father Above who does know. Who does see. Who will make it better in time. Maybe not my time, or your time… but His time.
I will not argue with my Maker. I have a lot of questions, but I will not argue.