Over the past few days I’ve asked my kids a question: Do you think you have a disabled mom?
Luke said, “No, but I wish you could run with me and take me to the Y.” I love that my son wants to run with me. What I would give to run with him, but that’s just not in the cards. But my son doesn’t think I’m disabled. I like that.
Tessa said, “Well, yes and no.” This answer spurred a lengthy conversation while we were taking my walk together. The long and the short of it is that Yes, Mom is an amputee and, by definition she is disabled. And No, Mom is normal, so by definition, she’s not disabled. I challenged her a little on this. “There’s some normal things I can’t do, like some of the other mom’s. So and So runs and So and So bikes and So and So dances,” I said.
“Well, Mom,” Tessa explained, “that’s because they’re good at those things.” I didn’t explain that they’re good at those activities because they have two legs and can actually engage in them. I heard what was underneath, or at least what I wanted to be underneath that statement.
I’m good at other things. Where I excel in life may not be, well, OK, I’m nearly fifty so the writing is on the wall, the things I excel at ARE NOT in the physical realm. I know that. I get that. I’m OK with that. My gifts lie elsewhere.
What I’m really OK with is that my kids don’t mope around because they have a mom that is disabled and ruining their life by making it little due to inactivity. Deep down I know that’s never been the case, but there’s always been that fear that my disability puts a major damper on their lives. Sometimes, yes. But most of the time, to them I’m just a normal mom.
I guess I’m doing something right.