I’m going to say something that risks sounding saccharin and gooey.
First, though, the prelude. I’ve been in the trough of the waves for awhile. It’s been hard. I’ve felt low. Much of the difficulty of special-needs parenting for me is not the daily trials and the fairly constant catastrophes, but the endlessness. It just never stops.
And I’ve really felt it lately.
Strangely, at the same time I’ve also begun to feel like the luckiest woman who ever lived (this is the syrupy part). Between the hard parts and the meltdowns (mine and theirs), I realized something. My children have essentially stripped me of pride, materialism, a tendency to cast judgement, and an inflated sense of my own competence. Our house is a forge, wherein my boys are pounding into me empathy, acceptance, simplicity, and a sharp awareness of my limitations.
Being their mother is a daily exercise in earnestly communing with God, because there is no other way I could make it. It isn’t hyperbole when I say that my boys compel me to drop the unnecessary, shed the undesirable, and jettison (literally) stuff. It’s fiery and intense, and I need help from the Source.
From the ashes, my family climbs, kinder, sadder, softer, and wholly reliant on truth and mercy.