As I sit here anxiously awaiting Timothy’s first day of Playschool tomorrow I know deep down what I’m most anxious about.
Timothy is our last baby. The last “firsts” we will experience with a child of our own. And although there were many times I wished we were “on track” with other kids, I relished the extra time I got with Timothy needing me. I got to carry him a little bit longer and to snuggle him to sleep just those few extra times. I got to drag out the last of our firsts.
Now everything is about to change. I’ve seen it coming the past few months. The leaps and bounds forward Timothy has made. And it’s amazing, truly. But it’s scary too.
Playschool is going to open so many doors for Timothy. The help and services he will receive is what we’ve hoped for these past 2 years. But it also means that he is about to grow into a little boy, the last traces I have of my baby slowly going away.
I know that now comes the growing up, the independence, the need for me a little bit less. I know that now comes the letting go.
I know it has been a long and tough road and yet you are only at the beginning. There has been sleepless nights, never ending days, endless google searches, and too many tears. Ever since the first thought of there being something “different” about your child, you have not been at peace. You have wondered what, why, and how. You have blamed yourself for not remembering your prenatal vitamin everyday, or for that one time you caved and ate unpasteurized cheese during your pregnancy. You have scolded yourself for not recognizing what was going on sooner, or not pushing the Doctors to look harder. And then all at once you have quickly forced yourself into acceptance and bravery. You know your husband does not understand half of the medical terms being tossed around, and your mother is beside herself with worry for your child so you have to be there to support them. Speaking of your child, how can you show them anything but bravery and acceptance? This is their life after all and they are so young and innocent. This diagnosis changes things, possibly everything. You have to keep it all together, the dishes, laundry, making meals, signing field trip forms, blood tests, specialist appointments, the list only gets longer. You make all the calls, telling family and friends the same information over and over, always answering “I’m fine” if they ask how you are handling things.
But Mama, you are not fine and that’s okay. You are allowed to feel the roller coaster of emotions this diagnosis came with. You are allowed to be angry and blame the universe if that gets you through the day. You are allowed to be afraid for every single worst case scenario that could come your way. You are allowed to laugh at things that are completely inappropriate at the time. You are allowed to eat every piece of chocolate you can get your hands on. You are allowed to ugly cry into a pillow. Your life just changed in a big way too. And tomorrow or two weeks from now you will get up and continue on with the bravery and acceptance because you are a great mom. But until then feel all the feelings, let yourself go through the healing process. It’s okay to grieve.