I do. Not of people, though… of moments. Today, I had a discussion with the me of four years ago. This me, plus about three hours.
The “your baby might have Down syndrome” me. The “Welcome to Holland” whether you like it or not resident. The girl who thought her fairy tale was over. I know, it sounds harsh. And it felt that way, too. And I saw that me again today as I sat with a new mom who had just heard these words for the first time. And I remembered the fear, the anger, the sadness.
So what do you say to yourself, four years later? You tell the truth. You say, I know you are freaking out right now. And that’s OK. I know that you feel like everyone is staring at you, waiting for you to react, and they might be. I know you want to crawl under the bed and hide and yell at everyone that comes in the door at the same time. I know you feel like it will never be the same.
And you are right.
But not in the way you think. Somehow, your heart is forced to expand to hold all of this love and fear and anger. And slowly, the scary parts fade away. And all that’s left is the extra room for the joy you have yet to know.
I’m not saying some parts won’t be hard. They will. You don’t find all the answers. No one does. But you will find that this bend in the road brings you right back to the place you were always meant to be. Sitting across the hospital room. Starting at yourself. Seeing the same tears slowly gather in her eyes. The smile that isn’t quick enough to come. And you will tell her to celebrate. Because you never get this moment back.
And then you will go home and rock your own little world changer, and listen to her practice her ABC’s and grab your hand to hold.
It will all be ok, you’ll say. In fact, it will be much, much better.