My husband and I often find ourselves pondering the intricacies of our middle child’s mind. A rare medical diagnosis looming over our baby’s head leads us into a whirlwind of predictions and worries. However, lacking the ability to see the future, we strive to remain present and engaged in the moment.
This is where my mind comes into play—a chaotic hub, a collection point for thoughts and concerns that can only hold so much before spilling over in unexpected, sometimes humorous ways.
Remember those old public service announcements that warned about the effects of drugs on the brain? They depicted an egg frying in a pan, suggesting that a brain on drugs can become scrambled. If that’s the case, then the mind of a special needs mom is more like a gourmet omelet—filled to the brim with a medley of ingredients: love, hope, anxiety, and a sprinkle of chaos.
Questions swirl endlessly: Will my child walk? Will he speak? Will he find friendship and love? Will the world be kind? Will we have adequate resources and time? Breathe.
I often think I should have pursued a career in law; it might have made navigating the maze of IEP paperwork easier. But when would I have found the time? Now, while sitting in the waiting room of my son’s therapy, I’m already behind on grading my college students’ papers. One student has recently achieved a significant breakthrough, and I wish I could share my pride with his mother, who sacrificed so much for his success.
Even though it’s technically against college policy to communicate with students’ parents, I can’t help but think of her. Imagining her pacing the floor at night, I feel a sense of connection. Meanwhile, my student is thriving in my English class, overcoming learning differences with determination. I attempt to air-high-five an invisible mom, only to accidentally honk my horn instead. No one seems to notice, which mirrors the isolation that often accompanies the life of a special needs mom.
At the grocery store, the checkout clerk with kind eyes unknowingly opens a door to my world. Years ago, she asked, “How’s your day?”—a simple question that can lead to a flood of emotions. On this particular day, my reply was a whirlwind of highlights from a recent IEP meeting. I shared our advocacy efforts and the small victories we celebrated. Thankfully, there was no one in line behind me; I was able to pour out my heart.
To my surprise, she responded with understanding, revealing her own daughter has an IEP. This connection is yet another trait of the special needs mom brain: we find our tribe in the most unexpected places.
Am I giving enough attention to my other children? Are they learning compassion and inclusivity? I believe so. Balancing everything is a constant challenge, but amidst the struggles, there are unique gifts that emerge—tiny victories that remind me to keep my faith alive.
If only I could earn Fitbit points for the mental gymnastics I perform daily. Before becoming a mom, my tendency to overthink was a burden, but now I see it as a superpower fueling my busy mind.
Tasks dance through my head: paid the tutor (check), rescheduled the endocrinologist (check), and sent the teacher a request for extra work (done). Music lessons are booked, and the taekwondo badge is attached to the uniform (who needs iron-on patches?). A shower? Well, that’s a luxury. Homework is checked off, and dinner for the ravenous crew is prepared. I create invisible lines through the imaginary list and add “breathe” at the bottom.
Recently, my husband discovered a 21-year-old with the same condition as our son. This young man is thriving and shares his journey online, encouraging parents to persevere. The relief and hope I see in my husband’s eyes is palpable. The special needs dad brain also works in overdrive.
As I think about reaching out to this young man, I’m flooded with a desire to help. I’ve amassed a wealth of knowledge about new research and therapies; my mind is a vault of information. At my core, I’m a mom convinced my heart can expand infinitely.
Oh, and I need to remind my husband to schedule that vasectomy. I have dreams of adopting every child with a rare condition, and it’s already midweek—we still haven’t discussed our reproductive plans. My womb, which seems to have a mind of its own, once nurtured a perfect little human destined to impact the world. His smile, freely given to all, calms the chaos and offers reassurance amid uncertainty.
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In summary, the life of a special needs mom is a dynamic blend of joy, worry, and connection. Each day is filled with tasks and emotions, but amidst the chaos, there are remarkable victories and a sense of community that makes the journey worthwhile.