To the Author of the Anonymous Note Left on My Car Window

note reading "you are clearly not disabled - shame on you."

I think I recognize you!  I do… Before becoming a mom, I used to live in your world of black and white — everything in order, in it’s place, I got a plan, got a schedule, a list of finished projects, checked-off checklist and all. How wonderful for you that your life is so structured, so dependable and predictable that you cling to that line dividing right and wrong, black and white and that you feel compelled to comment when you think someone is coloring outside the lines.

This time though, in your hurry to keep things neat and orderly you didn’t see the whole picture. I guess you didn’t see the accessible permit hanging from my car mirror giving me permission to park close to the entrance. You didn’t see the wheelchair lift permanently installed into the back of my SUV, and you didn’t see me unload my little girl’s pink manual wheelchair that we use for “quick ” trips. Maybe from your view, you only saw my older daughter and me and not Zoe’s bubble gum pink wheelchair.

But forget all that — it could have only been my older daughter with me that day, parked in that same spot, and depending on her health at that moment, in your eyes, we would have appeared to be at fault — even though her doctor almost nags me, reminding me often to use the medically authorized permit to conserve her energy when needed. But looking at her you wouldn’t know she has the same progressive metabolic disorder as her younger sister. She doesn’t have a wheelchair, but she has the same rights — all invisible to you from the perspective of your world.

I recognize where you are from. I used to live there too. I used to have checked-off lists, awards of accomplishments, perfect hair, great skin, sparkly eyes, a quick wit, a clean car, a social life, a large social network, an organized calendar, vacation plans set in stone and no overdue library books. But then I became a mom. And unexpectedly, a mom of a special needs child — a child with no lifelong guarantee, no definitive prognosis and no detailed treatment plans. We have good doctors, we have a good attitude and we have a good family life.

My life is good but not so easily structured. My skin not so healthy, my hair often flyaway, my eyes most often tired. I am up multiple times throughout the night, I rise at 5 and go full speed until 9 at night, still stymied and determined to do more each and every day.  I miss the friendships I used to have, the once-so-easy-to-achieve professional accomplishments –but I don’t miss that world you live in.

I am a kinder woman who lives in a world that is no longer black and white. Sometimes gray is good — a salvation, a retreat from something that could be much worse. My priorities were reshuffled for me, and now I would never think to judge another.

I am always in motion, and I am grateful. Grateful for the touch of my child who needs my hands to steady her, grateful for my child who craves my words to calm her, my child who needs my hugs to soothe her. I am even grateful that I no longer live… in that black and white world.

This post originally appeared on Special Needs Mom. Read part 2 here.

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