Some more poems I have found on the internet:
My Anticipated Son
I anticipated complaining of a waking baby;
Not of being grateful he's able to wake at all.
I anticipated the wonder of time rushing past,
Not of reflecting on milestones so small.
I anticipated crying at immunizations and bumps while learning his way;
Not of agonizing at more tests, evaluations, and word of more delays.
I anticipated choices over preschool, clothes, and scout troops;
Not of choices between hospitals, specialists, and which support groups.
I anticipated loving him, but enjoying his independence from me soon;
Not of loving him so much I'd want to keep him sheltered in my cocoon.
I anticipated health and perfection when my baby was inside, thinking anything less would be tragic;
But now that he is here, my special son had worked some kind of magic.
I anticipated anger and disappointment at this fate;
Not the joy and growth and knowledge that have become mine as of late.
I anticipated something different, that is certainly true;
But that's because I never could have anticipated one I love as much as you.
This one is written to a little girl - but I think you can easily change it to a little boy in your mind as you read it and see it as Dillon....
To Alexandra On Mother's Day, 1996
My sweet Angel, What a precious gift God has given to me in you. At first, there were so many things I did not understand . . .
Why would God give me a child who was not perfect . . .
I did not understand that it was I who could not see. I grieved for all you would never do . . .
For the first steps you will never take, For the tricycle you will never ride,
For the roller skates you will never own,
For the first date you will never have,
For the prom you will never go to,
For the joy that you will never know of having your own child.
I grieved for myself . . .
For never being able to hear you say " I love you, Mommy"
For never being able to teach you all the things I wanted to share with you,
For never being able to see you in a lovely wedding gown,
For the grandchildren I'll never have.
The pain of losing those things will never, ever go away.
But now I know . . . now I understand . . . You are a very special gift.
What you have to give transcends all those things I have grieved.
How can I possibly tell you how very much you have taught me?
I am amazed that I could learn so much from a child. . . .
A child whom others think has so little to give this world . . .
And cannot speak, but you say so much . . .
You infinite patience without complaining,
You're pure and simple innocence,
Your tolerance of so much that others could not bear,
Your sheer delight in even the simplest things,
Your quick, beautiful smile even when all is not well with you.
You have shown me things in myself that I never knew were there. You have taught me so much about life.
Now I know . . . now I understand . . .
It is you who gives me strength,
It is you who has so much to give and so much to teach me.
God has blessed me with a very special gift . . . the gift of Alexandra. I love you.
Some Mothers Get Babies With Something More
My friend is expecting her first child. People keep asking what she wants.She smiles demurely, shakes her head and gives the answer mothers have giventhroughout the pages of time. She says it doesn't matter whether it's a boyor a girl. She just wants it to have ten fingers and ten toes.Of course, that's what she says. That's what mothers have always said.Mothers lie.Truth be told, every mother wants a whole lot more. Every mother wants aperfectly healthy baby with a round head, rosebud lips, button nose,beautiful eyes and satin skin. Every mother wants a baby so gorgeous thatpeople will pity the Gerber baby for being flat-out ugly.Every mother wants a baby that will roll over, sit up and take those firststeps right on schedule (according to the baby development chart on page 57,column two). Every mother wants a baby that can see, hear, run, jump andfire neurons by the billions. She wants a kid that can smack the ball out ofthe park and do toe points that are the envy of the entire ballet class.Call it greed if you want, but we mothers want what we want.Some mothers get babies with something more.Some mothers get babies with conditions they can't pronounce, a spine thatdidn't fuse, a missing chromosome or a palette that didn't close. Most ofthose mothers can remember the time, the place, the shoes they were wearingand the color of the walls in the small, suffocating room where the doctoruttered the words that took their breath away. It felt like recess in thefourth grade when you didn't see the kick ball coming and it knocked thewind clean out of you.Some mothers leave the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months, evenyears later, take him in for a routine visit, or schedule her for a wellcheck, and crash head first into a brick wall as they bear the brunt ofdevastating news. It can't be possible! That doesn't run in our family. Canthis really be happening in our lifetime?I am a woman who watches the Olympics for the sheer thrill of seeing finelysculpted bodies. It's not a lust thing; it's a wondrous thing. The athletesappear as specimens without flaw - rippling muscles with nary an ounce offlab or fat, virtual powerhouses of strength with lungs and limbs working inperfect harmony. Then the athlete walks over to a tote bag, rustles throughthe contents and pulls out an inhaler.As I've told my own kids, be it on the way to physical therapy after a thirdknee surgery, or on a trip home from an echo cardiogram, there's no suchthing as a perfect body. Every body will bear something at some time oranother. Maybe the affliction will be apparent to curious eyes, or maybe itwill be unseen, quietly treated with trips to the doctor, medication orsurgery. The health problems our children have experienced have been minimaland manageable, so I watch with keen interest and great admiration themothers of children with serious disabilities, and wonder how they do it.Frankly, sometimes you mothers scare me. How you lift that child in and outof a wheelchair 20 times a day. How you monitor tests, track medications,regulate diet and serve as the gatekeeper to a hundred specialists yammeringin your ear.I wonder how you endure the clichés and the platitudes, well-intentionedsouls explaining how God is at work when you've occasionally questioned ifGod is on strike. I even wonder how you endure schmaltzy pieces like thisone -- saluting you, painting you as hero and saint, when you know you'reordinary. You snap, you bark, you bite. You didn't volunteer for this, youdidn't jump up and down in the motherhood line yelling, "Choose me, God.Choose me! I've got what it takes." You're a woman who doesn't have time tostep back and put things in perspective, so, please, let me do it for you.From where I sit, you're way ahead of the pack. You've developed thestrength of a draft horse while holding onto the delicacy of a daffodil. Youhave a heart that melts like chocolate in a glove box in July, carefullycounter-balanced against the stubbornness of an Ozark mule. You can be warmand tender one minute, and when circumstances require, intense andaggressive the next. You are the mother, advocate and protector of a childwith a disability. You're a neighbor, a friend, a stranger I pass at themall. You're the woman I sit next to at church, my cousin and mysister-in-law. You're a woman who wanted ten fingers and ten toes, and gotsomething more. You're a wonder.
