We Rock

Thump Thump Thump

My husband gives me the side eye and I just wearily shake my head. There is nothing more I can do.

"Do something!"

Bitsy is rocking again. Not strumming out on an air guitar and flinging her little curls to some Queensryche. She's just rocking.

Into a doorframe.

Against a wall.

Thump Thump Thump

I finally reached out to Twitter last night, since our darling backwoods, black bag toting grandpa farm doctor just said "she'll out grow it" or "find her a good glass of sweet tea and a rocking chair." Even Buzz knows. She's likes to deem her little sister as "special like me." Sometimes (although she was never a rocker) she will sit beside Bitsy and rock with her.

Dear Twitter....you guys are awesome!!!!

I was at wits end (not a real far trip, but every mile is precious to me) and to the point that I just wanted to lean up on the wall with her; rocking and crying. Each thump on the wall echoed a thump of pain in my heart that I can't fix her. I can't seem to ease what is causing it. She has no words at almost 16mos and very few sounds (We are thinking another Speech Delay child) so how long until she can express her frustration? How long until she can tell me what is too much for her to process?

Until then we rock.

Not against the wall though or a door frame. We rock just being who we are. For all our quirks, for everything that makes us different; we rock. For being mother and daughter who don't speak the same language; we can still show our love and we rock. For being a family cast in the chaos of special needs and making it through the day; we rock.

Piercing Life's Grain

 

It's too early for a diagnosis officially for our Bitsy, but we know. 

We've been here before with Buzz, but this time we aren't afraid or ashamed. 

We've learned that these two precious girls do not flow with the grain of what is "normal;" they dig in and make a mark. Piercing deep and experiencing life, leaving a few splinters that wound the heart of their parents. 

Wounds of wishing others saw their unique view of life. 

Wounds of desiring life to be a little kinder to them.

Sitting last night beside Bitsy's bed while she flapped her hands, rocking back and forth into the wall, I wept. Not out of pity for her, nor the need to change her. I wept because I understood that I will never understand. I will make accommodations for her when the lights are too bright, when noises are too loud, when emotions are jumbled, when a certain texture frightens her and when her words can't be understood. 

Yet, I can't understand with the mind that I was given. I can't process life the way that they do.

All that I can do is mother and thankfully, that's all they need from me.

As they pierce deep into the grain of life, they teach me.

They better me.

They have pierced my heart in a way that I would never want repaired. A nail of difference.