The other night I attended my daughter’s third-grade open house in the absence of my husband. I visited briefly with old friends, met new people, and felt completely out of my comfort zone. Although I have no problem expressing my thoughts in writing, the very act of speaking with anyone not included on my mental persons-okay-to-talk-to list, reduces me to a gelatinous mess of nervous laughter, sweaty palms and rambling, fragmented sentences. My husband makes fun of me because I refuse to call for pizza, a simple act that makes my heart palpitate so wildly, I can hear every beat thumping in my ears and feel it in the pit of my stomach.

The very fact that I have handled the intimate details of my son’s medical treatments almost entirely on my own amazes me. How many phone calls have I made to the pediatrician, the psychologist, the counselor, the school district? How many times have I met face to face with these people? How many times have we discussed the very nature of his “illness,” and debated ADD vs. Asperger’s Syndrome vs. Sensory Integration Disorder? I’ve done it alone, by myself, with nary a thought to how uncomfortable speaking to these people has been for me. Advocating for my son is much different from calling for pizza, however; whereas I can fix chicken for dinner if the thought of ordering takeout leaves my knees quaking under nervous pressure, I will hardly sit back idly and let my son fall through the cracks of the school system and, most importantly, society.

As I was eating lunch with my mother-in-law and aunt the other day, I recounted a story in which the bus driver yelled at my son ~ my son ~ for not getting off the bus quickly enough. His anger, directed toward my child and something I witnessed with my own two eyes and ears, ignited a fury so intense, the driver was lucky I had some amount of self-control at that moment. Being passive-aggressive and having a way with words comes in handy, say, when you decide to contact the head of bus transportation to report an unruly driver. Although I am not one of those mother-bear type moms who verbally attacks or abuses people for the sake of getting her way, I am not so subdued that I will stand by and let others mistreat my children, or other children, for that matter. Against the better judgment of some, I have been known to intervene when a parent, obviously tired and cranky, berates her child in public. If that isn’t bold, I don’t know what is.

As a parent, there are things that you just do for your child, things that might seem unreasonable if taken out of context. If it meant that my son could all-of-a-sudden be normal, I would parade up and down my street all day in nothing but the skin with which I was born. I would jump into a pool filled with worms and fish, two things known to induce the most horrific (as perceived by me) of nightmares. I would surrender every possession I own and never want for anything. I would never crave another pint of Ben & Jerry’s Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch or slice of chocolate cake. I would shave off my long hair and keep it shaved for the rest of my life. I would give any limb (preferably a leg, as it is difficult to type with just one hand).

Surely there are other parents like me would do the same for their children so that their abnormal kids might be normal? Perhaps wishing my son to be different is wrong or somehow selfish when, to be sure, I appreciate his brilliance, energy, and zest. I can hardly expect anyone to understand my conflicting emotions and reasoning, however, unless she is in the same situation and walks each day on eggshells.

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Congratulations to the winner of the fabric covered button bracelet, Wesley of Mountain Mama. http://blueridgedreams.typepad.com/mountain_mama/