Raising Other

It's slowly occurring to me that my child is, well, different. I mean I have always been weird, but not necessarily different. "Different" has always been something that "happened" to other people, other families even.

I am/was supposed to have 2+ beautiful, perfect, healthy children... But here I am, and I am struggling to accept my son's otherness and induction into the larger community of families who have children that are different.

Perhaps what hurts me the most is now that I can see Ian for who he is, with his peculiar features and possible challenges that lie ahead, it feels that I am not able to really see him. Lately I see the ideal of a son that I had hoped for (perhaps even expected) in the face of all the adversity during my pregnancy. My disbelief is starting to fade, but I have been feeling like I got cheated out of so much. After a horrible pregnancy and spending weeks or months at home while he's in the NICU, I will press onward through the parental suffering that is sure to continue.

I am not naive. I know that suffering is an inevitable component of life, of parenthood. For some reason God has allowed much of the suffering in my life to accompany my pregnancies, and now my son's birth. I am beginning to think that maybe it's some kind of curse. I want to continue to have children, but I feel like it may have been better for me to have my tubes tied.

I am so afraid of getting pregnant again, not just for financial reasons, but what kind of horror could await me the next time? Clearly motherhood has it in for me. Gratitude would say that I have two beautiful children, and I do. The struggle for each of them has gone well beyond hours of labor and continues on.

Yes, I struggle with my son's differentness. It must stem from some insistence within myself to be "perfect".... Or not that, but a constant, unhealthy harping on my flaws. I am always beating myself up about things that I do, how I wish I were different. Lately, as Doug will tell you, I use every opportunity to lament about how much I hate how I look now.

Thanks to diastasis recti, I look 5 months pregnant (except my tummy is a weird lumpy protrusion) and dumb in everything I wear. I mean, why even bother trying to look cute. In so many ways I feel broken beyond repair. My body is just the outward representation of it.

I think God is showing me that it's finally time to accept myself, no matter what. He doesn't see me the way I see myself--all I see are my flaws and imperfections. According to Him, I am fearfully and wonderfully made... But I just see the mess.

I can't allow this mess to come between my son and me. I want to see Ian only as he is, as a precious gift. The bible says that children are a gift... and it says that every good and perfect gift comes from The Lord. See, Ian is absolutely perfect. God makes no mistakes.

People have given me kudos for just making what I believe to be the right choices in the midst of adversity. I don't deserve a pat on my back for following my convictions. How could I do anything else? Unfortunately, you never know what you're getting into when you follow your beliefs by default, as in the case of deciding not to terminate either of my pregnancies.

Some advocate gathering as many facts as possible, but too many details all at once can be traumatic and cause one to to jump ship. For that reason, I just put one foot in front of the other and trudge along in blind expectation of whatever is to come. It's just that acceptance doesn't automatically follow and takes work, at least for me.