Welcome friends and family (because I'm sure that nobody else is reading this)!

     When I declared my major in college, I deliberately chose elementary education, not special ed or dual certification. In my suburban high school, the kids I knew who received special ed were learning-disabled. As far as I could tell, all that meant was that they didn’t have to meet deadlines, profited from selling their Ritalin, and cheated on tests with the help of their “readers” (OK, Tommy, your choices are a, b, CEEEE, and d, write your answer now!). I did not want to deal with whiny parents who claimed their child had ADD (yeah, I'm old, I predate the H), when really they were just suffering from the withdrawal symptoms of being separated from their video games for six hours a day. As I continued my education, I became more confident that I did not want to spend my days with non-communicative, combative or emotionally disturbed students. Of course, when I actually became a teacher, I had all of these types of students and more,  without the advantage of a diagnosis and the support staff which would accompany it. As a cocky undergrad, I was certain that I could avoid special education at all costs. 
     Then I had my daughter, Mary. And from the time she was eight months old, my life revolved around doctor’s appointments, service coordinators, and in-home therapy.  By the time she was two, a therapist was in my home every day of the week, sometimes twice a day. I was spending hours online, learning about her disability and looking for a connection with other families. Any conversation I had eventually came around to Mary and her syndrome. Like it or not, I was as involved in special ed as anyone could be. 

     The platitudes state that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle, that I was specially chosen to be Mary’s mother because of my strength. I have a slightly different perspective.

     God is funny.

     Only a God with a wicked sense of humor would give me a child that was the antithesis of what I’d wanted for my life. I never saw it coming, like any great practical joke. And before you think I’m a horrible mother, know that I love and cherish my Mary. But I am not one of those parents who say they wouldn’t change a thing about my child. You know, like deaf parents of deaf children who refuse to get them cochlear implants because it’s not part of their “culture.” What a load of crap. I would give Mary normalcy in a heartbeat.

     Yes, normalcy. Just because the p.c. army says “differently abled” or “intellectually challenged,”  I won’t pretend that Mary is just different. I won’t call her the r-word, either, but she is, to put it simply, disabled. It is my job to maximize her strengths and accommodate her weaknesses, not deny them.

     I’m no longer angry about Mary’s diagnosis. I’ve been through the stages of grief, excepting bargaining. I never really got that one. What does one offer God in exchange for new DNA for a child? Jewels? Cash? Animal sacrifice? I’ve accepted it and gotten on with our lives. However, I’m not going to go around forwarding inspirational quotes to my friends. I’m going to be honest. Raising a disabled child is a equal parts tiring, frustrating and hilarious, with a dash of wistfulness for what could have been. It’s very much like raising a normal child, except that people think you’re a frickin’ hero. That’s a nice perk, though undeserved in my case.

     There is a poem that is often given to parents of disabled children called “Welcome to Holland”. The writer compares raising a disabled child to planning a trip to Venice, but arriving in Holland instead. The main point is, you should go with it and enjoy the tulips, even though you were expecting gondolas, and stop mourning your loss. The author is right, but this kind a Hallmark-y schlock drives me nuts. Parenting is trench warfare and paradise rolled together, and I refuse to get philosophical or maudlin about it.

     When I decided to write about my experience raising Mary, now four years old, I knew that I didn’t want to write in platitudes. I’m not here to give advice or hope or inspiration. I like to call my perspective “realistically optimistic.” I leave the door open for possibility, while accepting the reality in front of me. I maintain a dark sense of humor about life in general. Most of all, I don’t sugarcoat.

     I have another child, Ben, who is eight. He will be featured prominently as well, lest I be accused of favoritism 20 years from now in some therapist's office. My husband, Gary, will also be included, as well as a huge number of other important people in our lives.

     I’m tellin’ it like it is, kids. If I offend you, get over it. If you relate to me, then I’m glad you don’t feel alone. If you think I’m a parenting genius, you need to seek professional help.