When Messy is Enough: Seeing Beyond Inspiration
What's It Like To Be A Mother Who Is Blind?
I still feel this way in many respects, but over time, the feelings have muted. The joy in parenting has not. When I walk into my son’s bedroom every morning and hear him say “Mama?” in his curious little voice, I can think of no sound in the world that is more precious. When I watch him do a puzzle or shriek joyfully as he points out the letter B, I fill with pride for him and for what we have worked so hard to help him learn. When my fingers linger in his soft curls as we snuggle before bedtime, my heart sings of utter contentment and peace. Being a mother is—most of the time—amazing.
But being a mother who is blind is not always amazing. For a long time, this has been something I haven’t wanted to admit, something I haven’t wanted anyone to know about. It’s a little secret I’ve held onto tightly because if I let that secret out, well, then I am just different. I don’t want to prove those doubters right, don’t want to give them even a tiny sense that they might be right. And for the rest of those who read what I write, I feel like not sharing something good or positive or inspiring is a letdown for them. If the thoughts aren’t beautiful enough for others to love, then those thoughts should probably just stay inside for a bit.
Well, I’m trying to remember that this idea is a big load of garbage. I’m trying to remind myself that my responsibility as a writer is not to show only the best parts of my complicated self. My responsibility is to be raw and whole, even if raw and whole sometimes looks boring or ugly or uninspiring, even if it maybe gives those people who doubt me a tiny sense that they might be right. It is not that I have been untruthful; it is merely that when the truth seems ugly or dull, I have put it to bed in hopes that in the morning, it would have grown some prettier feathers. Maybe gray feathers are pretty, too.
The truth is that being a mother who is blind is sometimes an incredible blessing. Sometimes, it just plain stinks. Sometimes, it just is. Over this past year, my journey in parenting with blindness seems to be made up of little moments, all bringing different little pieces of truth:
Little Moments of Embarrassment and Laughter...
Little Moments of Pride...
Little Moments of Frustration...
Little Moments of Awe...
Little Moments of Heartbreak...
Little Moments of Hurt...
My little boy has some speech delays and receives some early intervention services. One morning, I spoke with the developmental specialist to discuss my concerns about his speech progress. She mentioned to me that children often gain speech skills through direct eye contact with others modeling the speech sound formations. Since I am his primary caregiver and am not able to provide this eye contact, she wondered if this could be part of the reason for his struggles. I can assure you that this suggestion was not meant unkindly, and admit that I’d considered this idea on my own in the past. Still, when someone else said it out loud, it wrestled up my deep-seated fear that my son’s struggle could be all the result of the one thing I can never give to him. All the compensating, all the hard work to make up for what I lack, still might just not be quite good enough. ... Little moments of hurt, and inner tears I’ve never shared with a soul.
Little Moments of Struggle and Victory...
For months and months, I struggled to figure out how to take James for a walk. When he was little, I put him in a carrier, but he quickly outgrew it. Pushing a stroller in front of me while also swinging a white cane is both unsafe and nearly impossible. All the research I did suggested that most people who are blind pull the stroller along behind them. Well, it may have worked for “most,” but it didn’t work for me. I fumbled along like an idiot and the stroller lost balance every time I turned a corner. It was a mess. I tried every stroller I could get my hands on, tried different techniques, all to no avail. I got frustrated. But it was summertime in New England and too freaking gorgeous outside not to solve this problem. Then we bought a wagon. It was the best purchase in the world, at least that’s how it felt this summer. I can pull my son with efficiency and ease, and he and I are both happy as clams. So happy, in fact, that after that first walk with the wagon, I nearly cried with relief and joy. ... Little moments of struggle and of victory.
And this is what it all seems to be about. Little struggles, little victories, big doubts and big smiles. It’s finding ways to make things work, rejoicing at the beautiful parts, sometimes being caught in sadness or fear, and just living through it all because that’s what you have to do. Being a blind mother has forced me to confront the things I really hate about myself; the things that hold me back as a person also hold me back as a parent. It has allowed me to see some beautiful parts of myself, too. I see what I can do with the bits of creativity and determination inside myself when coupled with a love for my son that is more immense than anything I’ve ever known. My blindness doesn’t make me inspirational, no matter how many people say it does and no matter how much pressure I feel to live up to that. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t have to. My blindness makes me human. Humans are lovely and ugly and defective and full of messy complexity. And for today, messy complexity is enough.