are we there yet?

As told to Libby

Silberman

by Malky Sapir

Baby Yitzy is already swimming on the floor, babbling, and even starting to sit up. My heart swells with joy when I look at him, growing and advancing steadily. At 11 months old, he’s already surpassed his sister five years his senior by many milestones.

What a new reality this is for me.

I bumped into an old neighbor the other day. We’d lived near each other during my first marriage and single days.

“How are you? How are things?” she inquired. “How’s your baby treating you? Is he a difficult baby?”

I almost laughed out loud. “No, nothing is difficult about him. He’s the most delicious baby ever!” Teething and crying are simple joys that I’m relishing after having gone through such a challenging first-time parenthood.

It’s mind-boggling to notice how with Batsheva, I invested and invest every shred of my being in her development, yet I see so little reward for my efforts. With Yitzy, it’s hardly any effort and all reward.

And how is Batsheva handling all of this joy over Yitzy? I think I’ve mastered this—for now. I involve her in his care and put her “in charge” as much as possible, and she’s thrilled—for now. I also try “sharing the nachas” by informing her of every milestone he meets, and she’s genuinely happy for him although she’s unable to do the same.

Truthfully, I’m finally feeling like a mother. I used to feel awfully guilty during my first time-parenthood. My experience was so unlike other people’s experiences. I couldn’t relate to anything other mothers said or did, and I was sensitive, angry, and jealous.

On Pesach, we were eating a meal at my parents’ home a couple of blocks away from ours. My mother had invited several grandchildren who are around Batsheva’s age, thinking it would foster friendship among the kids.

To my dismay—but not surprise—the kids went to the playroom to play themselves. Resolutely, I brought Batsheva to the playroom.

“What part can Batsheva have in your skit?” I blurted out before I caught the long glances they were exchanging.

“Okay, she can be the kid. I’ll be her mother,” said one noble cousin.

I groped for the exit, tears welling up hot and angry. The kids didn’t really want her. They were trying to be “nice” to her. She’d never part of the chevreh, part of anything.

Of course, my nieces weren’t intentionally excluding Batsheva. However, and I admit I understand it, it’s challenging for healthy kids to play regular kid games with a handicapped friend. I’ve had my fair share of painful incidents to know how hard it is for those kids to grasp Batsheva’s circumstances.

“Why doesn’t she walk?” asked a young kid standing behind us in the supermarket the other day.

“Because she can’t walk,” I replied.

“So why don’t you teach her?” the child asked. The comment was so adorably innocent, but it triggered within me the guilt over all the things I don’t do for my daughter. These exchanges are everyday occurrences – some are more intentional than others.

A nine-year-old neighbor from a troubled background once approached the playground bench where I was sitting with Batsheva. “Your glasses are adorable!” he said, looking directly at my immobile daughter. “Where are they from?”

I nearly fell off the bench in astonishment. His com- ment was so perfectly natural, not like he was speaking to a “special needs” child. I came to a most ironic conclusion. Here was a product from a “broken” home, yet he was the one who was so whole, so sensitive, so accepting. And, sadly, products of picture-perfect homes can often be judgmental, cruel, and plain obtuse.

A therapist at a support group recently shared this great quote:

“I’d rather raise a special-needs child than a child who is cruel to special-needs children.”

While whether it’s true or not remains to be debated, for me, it was soothing. At least I don’t need to worry about my daughter saying or doing anything insensitive to others, given her disabilities. *

A couple of weeks ago, we were at my parents again for the Friday night seudah. Again, my mother had invited my young nieces—honestly, to my chagrin. I had neither the emotional energy to ask my nieces to play with Batsheva, nor the physical energy to leave the table and carry her to the playroom, and then sit and play with her.

Batsheva started whining, and when I turned to her, she indicated the playroom. She wanted to play! Feeling depleted, I said to her, “Maybe later, not now.” Soon, her cries escalated to howling.

I felt so helpless, so drained. I wanted to eat, to chat with my family. I absolutely did not want to play with her at that moment. But she wanted to, and she couldn’t do it without me.

The guilt consumed me as always and I felt sick. It was either being a good mommy/sacrificing my meal or bad mommy/enjoying my much-needed time together with family. Would I always have to choose between this rock and the hard place?

Sitting there, contemplating, a thought occurred to me.

Batsheva wasn’t crying to me. She was crying to Hashem. She was hurting that she couldn’t play with the other children. This was painful for her and as much as I wished to help her, there was only so much I could do.

I left the table and knelt down at Batsheva’s side, whispering in her ear, “I feel so bad for you, sweetie. You want to play with your cousins, and you can’t. It must be so hard for you.”

The switch in my own brain was so meaningful, and to her, it was so validating. I wasn’t the mean mommy anymore. I was on her side, crying right along with her.