Recently, I’ve been emphasizing to my 10-year-old son that while it’s completely normal to dislike certain tasks—like homework or tidying his room—he still needs to complete them. Ironically, I find myself needing to heed my own counsel, as I’m now on my third reminder from my daughter’s special education teacher regarding the completion of the infamous Parent Intake Form. And it’s only been a week!
Yes, it’s that time of year when I’m prompted to respond to questions like, “Do you believe your child can serve as their own legal guardian?” (Absolutely not) and “What are your aspirations for your child’s future?” (Honestly, I’m not sure, and I’d prefer not to dwell on it).
This September, my daughter, Mia, transitioned to a junior and senior high school tailored for teens and young adults with special needs. Clearly, my tendency to procrastinate on this form will not be tolerated here.
I’ve never successfully concealed my disdain for these forms. I dread answering questions for which I lack answers or, perhaps more distressingly, I do know the answers but simply can’t bear to confront them.
Deep down, I’ve always yearned, and if I’m honest, needed, to be recognized as the “ideal special needs mom.” The mother who doesn’t cause any fuss, who submits every form and payment punctually. Someone who comprehends her child’s situation and appreciates the dedication of the professionals supporting her. I value the rapport I’ve built with teachers and want to avoid being labeled as the “difficult” parent.
Yet, every year that this form arrives, I feel a surge of anger at the requirement to document what we all know: Mia’s challenges are significant. She will likely need the kind of support that only her father and I can provide, whether at home or in a specialized adult care facility. She may be capable of holding a job, but only with constant oversight. As she approaches 17, we’ll need to begin making plans to ensure we can legally act as her guardians when she turns 18, given that she will never manage on her own.
Mia’s capabilities fluctuate wildly. Sometimes, she can get dressed and prepare a snack independently. Other times, she’s lost in a whirlwind of nonsensical phrases, like when she’s stuck in her shirt and desperately needs help, screaming, “My unicorn lost its hat!”
During such moments, I struggle to empathize with parents of children whose special needs are more “quirky.” Those whose kids may need school services but can ultimately lead independent lives. I don’t want to hear about their understanding because, frankly, they don’t comprehend my reality, just as I can’t fully grasp the experiences of parents whose children may not face the same hurdles as Mia.
Perhaps this is why I loathe these forms so much. Once a year, I’m forced to confront the truth I’ve always known: as remarkable and unique as Mia is, she is profoundly disabled.
Despite my outward confidence, there’s a part of me that clings to the hope she might one day achieve all the things her siblings and cousins will accomplish. Every year, I must confront that version of myself I keep hidden—the self-pitying, frustrated special needs mom. I hope to see her fade away one day. Until then, I will reluctantly complete the form, apologizing to the teacher for my delay and expressing my genuine gratitude for her understanding.
And when I reach that final question, I will provide the same response I’ve given for three years: “Mia aspires to be a princess. We recognize there are limited openings in that role, but we believe she has what it takes.” That answer remains the only one I wholeheartedly believe.
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In summary, my journey as a mother to a child with special needs is filled with challenges and the occasional need to confront uncomfortable truths. While I strive to maintain a facade of composure, the annual intake form serves as a reminder that the reality of my daughter’s condition is profound and complex.
Keyphrase: confronting the truth about special needs children
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