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This Isn't The Life I Planned.... This is not how I planned my life. I am sitting here at my dining room table, viewing the chaos my house has become. There are angled bottles with special nipples on the counter, dreaming of new Petri experiments to raise. There are nursing bras, which are worn and faded on the left, and new on the right as Megan has never been able to turn her head to nurse on the right. There are developmental and educational toys in every imaginable nook and cranny on the floor; none of which my daughter is able to manipulate, play, or understand. My table is cluttered with developmental charts, growth charts, and "What to Expect the First Year" predictions; none of which my daughter has made. Adjusting to motherhood can be hard. Adjusting to motherhood with a special needs child can be heart-wrenching. This isn't the life I planned. For years, all I ever wanted was a child. I tried. I begged. I pleaded. I saw specialists. I prayed. I argued and bargained, pleaded and negotiated with God. All I heard was silence and continued buying Tampax every month. I tried adoption. I bought an entire nursery of either/or gender based toys, stuffed animals, blankets, books. The birth mother fled in her fifth month and I sadly packed it all away into the attic. This isn't the life I planned. A child was not meant to be. I grieved and made a new life. I avoided the malls; it hurt to see mothers walk with their strollers, laughing babies, unaware of how their pierced my heart. My grief would soar anew at Walmart and grocery stores when frustrated and harried mothers would yank children along, threatening to give them away, to give them something to really cry about, to handle them like unloved second hand teddies. I made a new life. A fast paced, hard driving life. A career with respect. A clean car. A self indulgent, manicured nails, wine while soaking in the tub kind of life. I never worried about stumbling out of bed, and stubbing a toe on a forgotten Dipsy. I never fluffed my pillow to find a woobie underneath. Yet, when the vomiting began, all the other things that held such importance began to disappear. My career went on leave. My car became cluttered with car seats, pacifiers, and diaper bags. Forget wine while breast feeding, and who can soak for more than three minutes without hearing a fumbling daddy yell, "honey!!"? This isn't the life I planned. During my pregnancy, I devoured books on developmental stages. She should be cooing by now, rolling over tomorrow. Oh, look! She is crawling, honey, crawling! I am so proud, she said her first word. But again, all I hear is silence. God, where are You? Her birth books are empty. The bookcases in her room are filled with stories she can't comprehend, toys she can't play with. Stuffed animals that are sitting, waiting, tags still attached more than a year and a half later. Her teeth have come in, but not her walking legs. No need for shoes. No happy babbling, no first mama or dada. She smiles, she laughs. She doesn't crawl. At her first birthday, she is merely a large happy infant. And now, she seizes. She shakes. A 17 pound earthquake that stops my heart with every tremor. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. Vision specialists. Hearing testing. Orthopedists. Pediatric neurologists. EEGs. MRIs. Guide dogs. Special education. This isn't the life I planned. But wait....there is the smile she gives when nursing. A happy pumpkin face that shines like a sunrise. Her eye rubs, signing she is tired, ready to clock out for the day. A single left arm that reaches for me to pick her up. The smell of Johnsons & Johnsons No More Tears that lingers in my nose. Open mouthed kisses on my cheek. Giggles that are better than the lottery. Painted ruby toenails. A drunken sit, wobbling but getting steadier. Every once in a great moon, her right hand opens tentatively, fingers stretching out. Maybe, someday, please God, oh please, maybe the word mama. This isn't the life I planned. But it's the life I grew inside me. And it's the life I would never trade for a clean car, manicured nails or long soaks in the bath. It's Megan. (c) Kimberly Kelly All Rights Reserved Comments to Author Share This Page With A Friend