I will be okay.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about our future. I soon will be a card-carrying member of "The Society of Parents with Special Needs Children."  (*no...that's not really a thing...at least not that I’m aware of...).  I have no idea how to exist within this Society, and I am paralyzed by the fear of saying or doing the wrong thing out of ignorance.  I don't know how long I can politely and curiously watch a special needs child in public before I am being rude or insensitive, and I sure don't know the terminology that is considered "politically correct" these days.  I want so desperately to communicate with this new group of people that I’m suddenly linked to.  I find myself drawn to children with special needs whenever I see them.  I want to throw my arms around them, to see their precious smiles and the way their faces light up at the simple things in life.  But most of all I want to talk to their parents and hear their stories.  To know the struggles and triumphs they have had on their journey.  I want to know what their child's diagnosis is, and how different their current life is from the one their doctors told them about in the beginning. I want to learn the secret handshake in order to fit gracefully and seamlessly into their world.

But, in all honesty, I am terrified of stepping through the door and introducing myself. 

Over the past three months, I have stood on the edges so many times and tried to talk myself into starting up a conversation with a parent of a special needs child.  At the grocery store, at the zoo, at the pool, I feel like I keep coming upon opportunities to say something...and each time I silently walk away, disappointed in myself.  

Which is why, yesterday when I saw a little girl with obvious developmental delays and a very small head, I knew I had to step out of my comfort zone and speak up. 

I was standing in the membership line at OMSI when this sweet girl, who looked to be about 4 years old, came running up with a huge smile on her face.  She was immediately drawn to Dylan, who was sound asleep in my front pack, and although she didn't appear to be verbal she was pointing at him excitedly.  Next she saw Jack and ran up to give him a hug, and the woman chaperoning her kindly reminded her that she needs to keep her hands to herself.  She was so sweet, and I spent the next couple minutes saying hello and letting her peek at sleeping Dylan. 

I wanted to approach the woman with her, and to ask if maybe this little girl had microcephaly too, but I was so nervous.  The kind of heart-racing-and-butterflies nervous I remember feeling when I talked to a cute boy in high school, knowing that if I didn't come up with an opening line quickly this opportunity would pass me by.    

Finally I got up the nerve.  “Excuse me…” I said timidly to the woman with the little girl, “…but, by chance, does your daughter have Microcephaly?”

“No…..?”

Oh crap, I shouldn't have asked.  I had offended her.  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and turned quickly to leave, muttering a quick “I’m sorry” as I tried to melt into the crowd. 

And then I heard another woman, from a few feet away.  “Excuse me...what were you asking?”  Her tone was very different from the first woman’s.  She was kind, gentle.  Looking at her, I could see the resemblance and I knew right away that this was the little girl’s mom. 

“It’s just…I was wondering what…if maybe she…it kind of looked like…” I hopelessly stumbled over my words, unable to make sense.

With a smile on her face and kindness in her eyes, she told me what her daughter’s diagnosis was, something I had never heard of. 

I pointed to Dylan.  “He was born with Microcephaly,” I said.  Out loud.  For the first time to a stranger.  My eyes filled up with tears as I quickly thanked her for her time and turned to leave. 

And then she said four words to me that I have desperately needed to hear for the past three months.  Words that meant so much coming from her, someone who has been through it and is living smack-dab in the middle of this world that I’m about to enter into.  She was just a mom, but in that moment she might as well have been the President of the “Parents of Special Needs Kids Club” for all I knew. 

“You will be okay.”

I have no idea if she realized how important those words would be to me.  She said them so confidently, with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, as if she knew the amazing gift that was waiting for me on the other end.  Maybe she was thinking back to a time when her daughter was three months old.  When she was terrified of what was ahead. And when someone told her that she would be okay.  Or maybe she just knew, with a confidence that can only come from experience, that we would be okay.

I cherish those words from a stranger’s mouth.  I hope that I can continue to have a dialogue with parents of special needs children in my community.  That, through time, as I learn this secret handshake that I never dreamed I would have a need for, my encounters will be less awkward and emotional for me. And I look forward to a day in the future when I can calm the nerves of a nervous new mom by giving her the gift of reassurance that I was given yesterday. 

Because, I know it is true.  I will be okay.