Erma Bombeck's Embracing Words

In April of 1987,
I sat alone in a doctor's office
with my 7 month old blue eyed boy
in my arms,
while the Doctor explained to me
why my son wasn't rolling over,
holding his head up,
reaching for things,
wasn't
doing seven-month-old things.

Cerebral palsy claimed those abilities.

After the visit,
I went out to the parking lot at
Phoenix Children's Hospital
and cried my eyes out in the privacy of my car.
Holding my baby in my arms
I wept harder than I ever had in my life.
For reasons only those who've had a special needs child
can truly understand.

Sometime in the next few days,
the wife of the Chiropractor I worked for,
brought a poem into the office for me.

It was written by America's Housewife,
Erma Bombeck, entitled "Special Mother":

(Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures and a couple by habit. This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how these mothers are chosen?) Somehow I visualize God hovering over earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As He observes, He instructs His angels to take notes in a giant ledger. "Armstrong, Beth-Son-Patron Saint, Matthew." "Rutledge, Carrie,-twins-Patron Saint...Give her Gerard, he's used to profanity."
Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles. " Give her a handicapped child."
The angel is curious. "Why this one God? She is so happy."
"Exactly, could I give a handicapped child a mother who doesn't know laughter? That would be cruel."
"But does she have patience?" asked the angel.
" I don't want her to have too much patience, or she will drown in a sea of self pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she will handle it. I watched her today. She has that sense of self, and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother.
You see, the child I'm going to give her has his own world. She has to make him live in her world, and that's not going to be easy."
"But Lord, I don't think she even believes in you!"
God smiles. "No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect, she has just enough selfishness."
The angel gasps. "Selfishness, is that a virtue?"
God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she'll never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect.
She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word. She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says "Momma" for the first time she will be witness to a miracle and know it. When she describes a tree or a sunset to her blind child, she will see it as few people ever see my creations. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see--ignorance, cruelty, prejudice-- and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing My work as surely as she is here by My side."
"And what of her Patron Saint?" asked the angel, his pen poised in midair.
God smiles. " A Mirror will suffice."

When it was handed to me,
I winced.
Emotions were still raw,
and this just rubbed me to the bone.
I didn't want to be this mother.

I accepted it with a smile,
and then took it home
where it floated about our little apartment--
I didn't want to keep it,
but couldn't throw it away.

After months and months of doctor's appointments--
neurologist,
OT
PT
Speech Therapy,
geneticists
and on and on
I came across the poem,
that by this time had been stuffed into the "junk drawer".
I pulled it out,
read it again
and felt peace.

I copied it again
then framed it
and hung it over Dean's crib
where I could see it
every
single
day.
I finally embraced who I was,
and found inspiration,
where Erma had pointed me to look.

Just last week,
I was thinking about that poem,
and for the life of me,
couldn't remember who wrote it--
then, as if on cue,
my good friend, Nannette,
brought it over to me--
it was in a community newspaper,
specifically written for anyone involved in the
special needs world.
Nan didn't know my history with this poem at all.

She just handed the paper to me
and said she thought I'd like it.
It wasn't until later in the day that I even picked up the paper
to read what it was--
around dinner time actually,
I glanced down to see what was there,
and the words sprung off the page--
n' wrapped their familiar love around me
like a very old friend
and squeezed my heart so tight,
my eyes welled up with tears
at the timely reunion.
Those familiar words about angels and mothers
and sweet spirits that need us so.
I soaked it in so quickly,
that I read it twice through,
and after dinner,
I asked Mr W if I could share this sacred little poem
with him--
because he wasn't there when I was a 23 year old mother
with a blue eyed baby in my arms.
So I read it like I knew it by heart,
then he reached over and gave me a good squeeze,
like only he can.


Erma's legacy is the timeless good and wisdom she saw in this world,
and shared with anyone who wanted to partake.
I love her for that.

And Nan, you are a blessing in my life. Thank you.