What if I failed as a mother?

There are entire days that go by that I forget Baker has Down Syndrome.

It's true.

 

It hasn't always been that way.

I remember when I couldn't go an entire minute without drowning in the weight of his diagnosis.

I remember being terrified.

 

As a new mother, I knew so little about so little.

 

The task of raising a child with special needs seemed overwhelming.

 

What if I missed a therapy?
What if I was singing when I should be speaking?

What if my pitch was high when it needed to be low?

What if I didn't use sign language early enough?

What if I held him the wrong way?

What if his toys weren't the just right toys for his needs?

What if he wasn't getting enough tummy time?

What if I wasn't timely enough in involving Early Intervention?

What if I read the wrong books and left the right ones untouched.

What if I held him too much?
What if he ate too little?
What if he slept on his stomach instead of his back?
What if I zigged when I should have zagged.
Zipped when I should have zapped?
What if I didn't do everything correctly? Precisely? Perfectly?

 

The real question was none of those.
And to be honest, it had little to do with Baker's special need.
 

The real question was what if I failed as a mom?

 

The job I'd pretended at, the job I'd prayed for, the job I longed to inhabit above all else.

 

My heart ached at the enormity of it all.
 

To strive for perfection,
when I am the most imperfect of them all.

I was relieved when, in one of our day-long rocking sessions,
I reread this familiar verse:


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I would fail.
Sweet Jesus, I would fail.
Many times a day.
Many, many times a day.
But I can rest in the strong arms of my Savior,
knowing his power is perfect in my doubt, in my failure, in my weakness.