GBE2: Self

"Do you ever cry?" I was asked out of the blue one evening by the woman who was trimming our sons' hair. Almost instantly, she was embarrassed. "I mean, how's that for a personal question, huh?" she asked, laughing nervously.

She was right. It was personal, but I wasn't offended. I guess it was a question overdue. We'd known her for years and yet I had not once discussed our children's disabilities with her.

In the beginning, I was defensive. I didn't think our children's physical and developmental diagnoses were anybody's business but our own. As time passed, well, it was all quite obvious, wasn't it? After all, at these appointments, I never sat. Our older son was either bolting out of the salon, tearing down displays or grabbing at electric clippers.

Forget about having to pin him down in the chair just to get his hair cut.

Surely this woman noticed that our older son did not speak while at the same time his brother spewed every fact you didn't want to know about every topic you didn't want to hear, all while standing way too close to your face.

I can only imagine how we appeared to her, year after year as I struggled but never mentioned a word about the reasons for our struggles. I guess she just knew. Yes, I'm quite sure she'd always known as she quietly trimmed their hair and talked pleasantries until one night, out of the blue, she'd lost her filter and asked me, "Do you ever cry?"

"I used to cry a lot," I answered honestly.

Once a young mom to a toddler and a newborn who were both receiving Early Intervention services, I was told that I needed to grieve for the children that I would never have.

That thought offended me. I loved my children. They needed my help, not a grieving parent. So, I removed myself from the picture and focused on what I needed to do to help our kids. I had to. Their future required the work of a thousand men.

The tears silently spilled as I went about my day. I wiped them away quickly and moved on. And then, realizing that I couldn't let our children continue to see me do this, I began to steal away.

I cried in the shower.

I cried in the front seat as I drove our older son to preschool.

I cried when I went to bed at night.

Behind closed doors, the tears spilled. I wiped them away and moved on as quickly as I could, insisting that I was fine, until eventually I realized that, clearly, I was not fine.

In an effort to be strong, I was the picture of weakness. And, I was teaching this lesson to my children.

One day, I sat down amidst the chaos in our home, and I cried openly, reclaiming a spot for myself in this crazy life of ours. And, in doing so, I found that, in time, I didn't need to do it as often as I did at the start.



This entry was written in response to the word prompt "Self", issued by the Group Blogging Experience 2 (GBE2).