To All You Parents…

I stare.  When you feel someone’s eyes on you when you’re out and about, it’s most likely me.

To all the pregnant women…I stare at you.  I stare with envy and longing for the days of simplicity.  Days when all I had was a perfect, little baby safe in my belly.  When no matter what I did, I wasn’t alone.  I stare and long for those moments of joy and expectations of the future.  I long for the day before my emotional crash.  I stare because of my “typical pregnancy” fever.  I long to feel a baby kick every time I lay down to sleep, I long to go into labor naturally, I long for easy, simple ultrasounds.  I long for all this, knowing that even if we choose to have another biological child, I will never have that simple carefree pregnancy.  I don’t stare in judgment, I stare because of what you’re belly represents in my life.

To all the moms of typical children…I stare at you.  I stare because your children represent the grief I’m constantly in, dipping under and resurfacing.  I had those same dreams and expectations of my child. I had the perfect visions of whom my child would be.  I’m still tested and challenged every day with the realization of who my child actually is, the doctors appointments, the therapy, the challenges, the fear of the unknown.  I don’t stare because your child is having a tantrum in the grocery store, I stare because who knows if my son will ever have the skills to have a tantrum.  I don’t stare because your toddler repeated something inappropriate, I stare because I don’t know if my child will ever speak, much less repeat something.  I don’t stare because you’re breastfeeding in public, I stare because of my jealousy that Bear couldn’t breastfeed, and all the challenges we faced introducing formula.

To all the moms of special needs children…I stare at you.  I stare in longing, because I’m there too.  I stare because I want to say “Hi”.  But I’m shy in the 13-year-old-boy way and I’m scared of rejection.  I stare because I want to ask if you use our therapy center, if you feel the same exhaustion I do, if you are sometimes crippled by the fear and grief.  But I’m too scared to say a word.  So I stare.  I stare because your children are beautiful, in their  own special way.  I stare because I see myself in you.

The next time you find someone staring at you, please don’t be put off.  Maybe they’re in my shoes and staring is the only way of communicating.