“Your love keeps lifting me, higher, higher and higher,” I crooned to my son last week, swaying gently as we rode up and down on his new wheelchair lift. It felt like the slowest of trust falls.
This was a significant milestone for us. Countless months spent collaborating with a specialized accessibility company, along with generous volunteers, architects, and physical therapists. Not to mention the challenge of clearing out our garage, which still housed boxes untouched since our last move—four years ago! We worked late into the night, battling moths and mosquitoes, to create a space for something that would offer our child a little more freedom.
But as excited as I was, I couldn’t shake my nerves. This new contraption symbolized a kind of defeat. I was relinquishing my role as the “super mom” who could do it all. My son was growing heavier and taller—like a young horse. Lifting him up those stairs felt increasingly daunting, as if I were trying to carry a baby horse that occasionally kicked me in surprise.
When he was an infant with a trach, I was the one who suctioned him in the dead of night. As a toddler with limited speech, I learned to anticipate his needs. Just last year, I could still carry him with ease, and we celebrated our victories with laps around the hallway. But as my legs began to tire and the stairs loomed like a summit, it dawned on me that our days of doing it all together were numbered. Change was certainly in the air, much like the spinning weather vane at the start of Mary Poppins.
Yet, acknowledging this change was no easy task. It was all we had ever known—him and me, inseparable, sharing the weight of our journey. When the final nail was driven home and the lift was ready for its inaugural test, I stood with him in his wheelchair, gazing down at the new world before us. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts:
- But it’s my job.
- But my back hurts.
- But I love holding him close.
- But he needs freedom.
- But he’s my baby.
Then, with a deep breath, we took our first ride together. I sang, I cried, and he giggled as he pressed the button all by himself, signing for “more” as we ascended and descended until his little finger grew tired.
To my surprise, this moment turned out to be far better than I had anticipated. My anxiety melted away. This lift represented one more chance for him to gain independence and experience a bit more of life on his own terms. That’s what every parent desires for their child—a little more space to explore and grow. Yet, even amid this joy, there was a twinge of sadness, a phantom ache from the absence of him nestled against my hip. He’ll always be my boy, and letting go is hard, even when my arms tremble from the effort. But like any child, he deserves the freedom to roam. And now, he can.
For more insights on parenting and creating inclusive environments, check out our post on home insemination kits, or learn more about the process at ACOG’s infertility resources.
Summary
This piece reflects on the emotional journey of adapting to a new wheelchair lift for a child with special needs. It captures the bittersweet transition from being a hands-on parent to acknowledging the necessity of independence, while also celebrating the joy of progress and freedom.
Keyphrase: “accessible home for special needs”
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]