I had an interesting conversation with a friend this week about fear. Well, to be honest, it was really a confrontation of fear through this person's guidance.
After much dancing around the subject, during which time I was willing to offer just about any other adjective in its place, I said it. I am afraid. And I bet every other mother watching an adolescent boy with Asperger's is, too. Or was.
There appears much to be afraid of. We are afraid for our sons when they grow up with no friends, fearing nobody will ever like them and they are destined to a life of standing in a corner of the playground, confused and hurt, yet unable to figure out why.
We are afraid for other people; that an incident will occur during which teachers, relatives, or peers will be unable to respond in a way that diffuses the situation and sets appropriate limits, unknowingly instigating further disruption.
We are afraid for ourselves; that we will be unable to manage this for the rest of our lives. We fear we will make a choice based upon our own wants rather than our child's needs. We fear few resources will be available, that i's will not be dotted and t's will not be crossed; we will miss something in the paperwork that might prevent assistance from coming.
That's a lot of reasons to be scared; really, really, scared. So the question posed to me was this: "Would you still be a good mother if you weren't afraid?"
Oh.
Fear can either bitter me, or better me. It's my choice.
1 comment:
Maybe we were blessed with these more complicated kids because we needed a taste of fear to keep us prayerful and mindful of our job as parents.
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