Acceptance – another step in parent’s journey 

Spring 1999 

What I remember about those early days of parenthood is so vague – many of my memories being, like photographs, very one-dimensional and void of any emotion. I remember events as though looking through a picture album, finding it difficult to uncover the feelings that were associated with those events.  

Those early months and years were characterized by the importance of the events that took precedence at the time: July 1984 – Laura is born; August 1984 – Laura has life-saving surgery, stops sleeping at night; September 1984 – Laura is hospitalized with pneumonia; December 1984 – Laura is hospitalized again with pneumonia; we “find out” about Laura’s diagnosis; January 1985 – Laura begins infant stimulation; November 1985 – Laura has eye surgery; April 1986 – Laura is assessed at Five Counties Children’s Centre and I quit working outside the home; September 1987 – Robbie is born. And on it goes. 

Many events are either forgotten completely (rediscovered only when I look up details in our many journals and reports), or the events are remembered without the emotion that seemed so powerful at the time. Although I have not decided why the feelings have become so vague, I assume it has something to do with the passage of time, and everything to do with my coming to terms with the reason for those deep emotions. However, there are some memories that are able, even now, to evoke powerful emotions. 

One such memory is of going to the grocery store (before I knew about the terror Laura felt each time we went there) and of trying so bravely to pretend that my life was not affected by this little bundle, now over a year old, laying, so helpless in the bottom of my grocery cart, peaking out from among the boxes and bags. 

I remember wishing people would just leave us alone, because this wee baby was just a baby after all, at the same time praying, please, just this once, to get through this one errand without any incident. I remember anticipating and then watching the escalation. I remember feeling the colour coming into my face as I tried to cope with my many emotions, also escalating. I remember trying to stay calm, to ignore what was soon constant screaming. I remember the stares that other shoppers threw my way, like daggers. I remember those unspoken judgments about my ability to parent my child. I remember the misguided comments of people who, not knowing any better, made suggestions about how to handle my child. I remember making a pact with myself to now allow their stares or comments to affect me, and then falling apart only seconds before running out of the grocery store, my groceries abandoned before ever getting close to the check-out. I remember feeling that I was a failure because I could not control my child’s outbursts. I remember being angry at myself for not coping better. I remember wanting to scream at those people who turned up their noses and steered clear of me as I ran from the store with my baby screaming in my arms. 

For years, I let what others think and say and do affect what I thought and said and did. I felt that the judgments, whether or not they were verbalized, reflected my aptitude for parenting. To fix my “problem,” I began to teach myself how to be a better parent. I spent hours learning songs and games, reading books and watching parenting programs, taking courses and attending workshops. I had a mission: to become the best parent possible. I would show them. I would make sure that those stares and comments and judgments would no longer be directed my way. My increased parenting ability would result in my life returning to “normal.” 

I continued to search for ways to improve. If only I could do a better job, then Laura would “get better” and people would see that I was not such a bad parent. 

For years, I dreaded any outing. We could go nowhere inconspicuously. If the comments were not about the constant screaming, they were about Laura’s appearance. If they were not about her appearance, they were curious questions about “just how old is she, anyway?” Laura was an anomaly about which many people felt inclined to comment. Each outing became a morbid game: how long can we go without someone noticing just how peculiar we are. 

I cannot specify the exact moment, but, after many years, I was finally able to realize that this was not about my parenting. It was not about people’s curiosity or lack of manners. It was not about being judged right or wrong. It was not about any of this. What I was feeling was more about my coming to terms with and getting to know who Laura is. 

One day (and it truly did seem to happen that suddenly), I could go anywhere and do anything secure in the knowledge that, at this moment, I am the best parent that I can be. I could see the looks and hear the comments, and accept the fact that these looks and comments may never change. What can change is how I react to them.  

Now I choose to believe that, if we had more time, Laura and I could educate those people so they could better understand and accept differences. I choose to believe that being different and being comfortable in that difference is far more important than being the same. I am able now to celebrate Laura’s differences, and to recognize and celebrate mine as well. I am able now to look beyond the differences to see the value of the qualities that often are overshadowed by those differences. 

I do not know when it happened, but I know that it did. I came to accept that all people have differences, and all people have strengths and abilities and something to offer. This acceptance is a gift that is with me in everything I do. 

I still hate to go grocery shopping, but that has more to do with the task at hand than with the company I keep.