Friday, May 07, 2010

The Special Mom, by Erma Bombeck

Well, this weekend is Mother's Day and I haven't shared this one in a few years, so I thought I'd post it again. I want to share with you my favorite Erma Bombeck writing about "special" Moms in honor of Mother's Day.

I must note that I disagree with Erma on one part of this piece - we (special needs moms) are not saints, we are just doing what any parent would do. For the most part, Erma has perfectly described all that God has shown me in my very special daughter. Enjoy and Happy Mother's Day!

The Special Mom by Erma Bombeck, 1980

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures and a couple by habit. This year, nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of handicapped children are chosen? Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As he observes, he instructs his angels to make notes in a giant ledger.

"Armstrong, Beth, son, patron saint, Matthew. Forrest, Marjorie, daughter, patron saint, Cecilia. Rudledge, Carrie, twins, patron saint, give her Gerard. He's used to profanity."

Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles, "Give her a handicapped child."

The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy."

"Exactly," says God. "Could I give a handicapped child to a mother who does not know laughter? That would be cruel."

"But has she patience?" asks the angel.

"I don't want her to have too much patience or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she'll handle it. I watched her today. She has that feeling of self and independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I'm going to give her has his own world. She has to make it live in her world, and that's not going to be easy."

"But, Lord, I don't think she even believes in you."

God smiles. "No matter. I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness."

The angel gasps, "Selfishness? Is that a virtue?"

God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she'll never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a 'spoken word.' She will never consider a 'step' ordinary. When her child says 'Momma'* for the first time, she will be present at a miracle and know it! When she describes a tree or a sunset to her blind child, she will see it as few people ever see my creations."

"I will permit her to see clearly the things I see . . . ignorance, cruelty, prejudice . . . and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life, because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side."

"And what about her patron saint?" asks the angel, pen poised midair. God smiles. "A mirror will suffice."

*Re-reading this again brought tears to my eyes. It took 6 years for Jenelle to finally say "Momma" for the first time, and I had to hear it on the telephone while in a hospital bed when I was hitting the worst of induction chemo. And even in the most difficult of times for me, I understood the silver lining God had planned. My absence from home gave Jenelle the strength to find her voice and speak my name. That tiny miracle helped me get through my cancer. God truly does work in mysterious ways.

1 comment:

Tonie Auer said...

Awww, Kelly. That is beautiful. And, oh so true. Children with special needs really do require a mother with the gumption to fight for them. You really ARE such an inspiration to me. When I feel sorry for myself, I look at moms like you and know that I'm so very blessed. My burden is light compared to yours, but you carry it with such grace and strength. I feel like a total wimp in comparison.

You keep on being that beautiful wonderful mom that you are. Your children are so very blessed to have YOU hand-picked to be their mom.