“You think you’re under pressure now? Just wait until your baby arrives! That’s when the real worries begin!”
My sister, Rachel, and I were on the phone during a chilly winter evening. I was already six months pregnant with our first child, Noah. My husband, Alex, and I had just returned from a last baby-free escape to the mountains of Vermont before Noah’s arrival in a few months. I shared stories about our getaway but also admitted to Rachel that if I hadn’t felt any kicks in a while, I would down a glass of orange juice just to prompt some movement.
Naturally, feeling anxious during pregnancy is common. The nine-month journey filled with hopes for a healthy baby can be daunting for anyone. In my case, it was even more complex. I was the first in my family to have a rare condition called “ectrodactyly,” which resulted in me being born with only one finger on each hand, shortened forearms, and one toe on each foot. While the term might sound impressive, it simply means “missing digits.” With no one else in my family born with this condition, I naïvely thought it would end with me.
At our 20-week ultrasound appointment, most expectant parents focus on whether they’re having a boy or a girl. I, however, was solely concerned with the baby’s fingers. As the doctor maneuvered the ultrasound wand over my belly, we couldn’t miss the sight of a tiny finger waving back at us. Although we were aware of the potential risks due to my condition, I was still taken aback. Fast forward two and a half years, our second son, Lucas, was born with the same condition but with two fingers on each hand, similar to Noah.
People often say our boys are fortunate to have me as a role model, but I believe I was just as blessed to have my parents as mine. When I was born, my parents received no warning about my physical condition. One moment my mom was in labor, and the next, the doctor was saying, “Excuse me, there seems to be an abnormality…” Despite their initial shock and lack of experience with parenting a child with noticeable differences, my parents instinctively understood how to raise me.
They tried various approaches, such as consulting specialists about prosthetics, but I always wriggled out of them. Even as a child, I knew those aids weren’t for me. Despite the instinct to shield me, my parents allowed me to explore life, fail, and then try again—whether it involved walking, writing, or riding a bike. They understood that what I needed most was the belief that I could achieve anything I set my heart on. If I stumbled, we’d joke, “Not everyone can play the flute!” Ironically, I ended up learning the trombone.
When other kids were curious about my appearance, my parents encouraged me to engage them directly, discussing my differences and asking about theirs. Fortunately, this approach often led to a smooth transition from my unique features to the games we could play together.
Beyond their gentle guidance, my parents instilled in me the essential ingredients for unconditional self-acceptance. One of my favorite childhood games with my mom was called “My Little Girl.” In this game, she would say, “You couldn’t be my little girl because she has beautiful long dark hair!” and I would beam with pride. The best part was when she would say, “You just couldn’t be my darling little girl, Jamie. My Jamie has only one finger on each hand!” I would joyfully wave my fingers in the air, exclaiming, “Me! I have one finger on each hand!” And we would hug, only for me to beg to play again. Though my mom may have grown tired of the game, I never did.
My parents enforced a strict “no pity party” policy. While I had days when I came home upset from school, there was little tolerance for lingering self-pity in our home. They recognized my struggles with not looking like everyone else and the stares I received, but they understood the importance of moving on quickly from the things I couldn’t control.
Fast forward over eleven years since that ultrasound, Noah is now a sixth grader, Lucas is in third grade, and their little sister, Mia, is in first. Many may look at us and think they wouldn’t want to trade places, but living my life, I wouldn’t change a thing.
As parents, Alex and I have turned to my own upbringing for guidance. While we have the instinct to protect our children, we ensure we don’t overdo it. We encourage them to believe that anything is possible. Noah has taken up guitar in addition to his love of basketball and tennis, while Lucas, who enjoys archery and drawing, persuaded us to let him join a baseball team last spring.
Through my journey, I’ve come to appreciate the beauty of imperfection and have passed this wisdom onto my children. We are raising them to take pride in their uniqueness, making it unnecessary for me to play games like “My little boy” with them. They already know how to celebrate what sets them apart.
For more insights on parenting and embracing differences, you can check out this article on embracing uniqueness. And if you’re interested in at-home insemination kits, a reliable option can be found at Make a Mom. Also, for a deeper understanding of pregnancy options, Healthline offers excellent resources.
In conclusion, celebrating our differences fosters a sense of pride and acceptance, allowing us to approach life with confidence.
Leave a Reply