A Lesson Learned

I spent most of my past questioning where I fit in. As a young teen I was rail thin, was incredibly shy, and had some wild-wavy hair that I wasn’t quite sure how to manage. I lacked self-confidence.  I also struggled with friendships, not with making friends by any means, instead it was difficulty with truly owning my personality. I was so scared to be my transparent self that I’m almost positive no one knew the real me.

As I got older I was pretty active in school and extra-curricular activities. I could befriend peers from a variety of student groups. However, I still never really found “my place”. Even throughout college and my 20’s I always found myself saying to Michael, “I don’t fit”. I couldn’t ever really say why though.

And then Bridget came along. I had other mommy friends and things seemed to fall into place, until they didn’t any longer. My little companion and I were falling behind the pack. It was easier to shelter Bridget and keep her away from others than to deal with the looks, stares, and questions.

Kids would attempt to play with Bridget, but she didn’t really know HOW to play. Still to this day she can’t play like other children can. There is no coloring going on at home (Bridget would definitely eat the crayons), we can’t do puzzles (fine motor is a challenge), and board games or parallel play...forget it.

Our scene instead is outside, running, going to the park, visiting the zoo, or maybe even attempting the pool. We are always hand in hand, never to leave her alone at any minute for fear something horrible might happen (clumsy doesn’t even begin to describe her). So, there I was again, not fitting in.

I didn’t fit in with the regular moms and their kids because they couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand them. I can’t imagine going to a park and casually sitting down on a bench to just observe like the other moms do. I’m always mobile, anticipating Bridget’s moves or accidents before they happen, or on damage control in case there is a fall (and there will be many). I don’t even fit in with other “special needs moms”, as Bridget’s diagnosis sets her apart from others.

Luckily, Bridget has taught me more than she’ll ever know since learning of her diagnosis. I spent so much of my life worrying, caring what others thought of me, feeling like I just didn’t fit. But I do fit, and I fit right here with my little family. I want to spend the rest of my time living as Bridget does. I want to wake up grinning and laughing and putting a smile on the faces of others. I want to sing at the top of my lungs and ignore the laughs from the cars beside me. I hope to play and read every day with my children. I’ll wear my strawberry-blonde hair wild and curly and free and not have a care in the world. And most importantly, I will love my family as fiercely as imaginable.

It’s funny how many lessons Bridget has managed to teach me. It really goes to show that your actions speak louder than your words. If my family was a puzzle, we would fit together perfectly.