“Your love keeps lifting me, keep on lifting higher, higher and higher.”
Just last week, I serenaded my son with a little Jackie Wilson while we enjoyed our first ride on his new wheelchair lift. It felt like a slow-motion trust fall, a mix of excitement and apprehension.
This was a significant milestone for us. After months of collaborating with a special needs contractor, volunteers, and various professionals, we finally made room for this essential addition in our home. Not to mention the late nights spent clearing out the garage, still cluttered with boxes from our last move four years ago. We worked tirelessly to create a space that would provide our child with the freedom he deserves.
Yet, amidst the joy, I felt an undercurrent of anxiety. This new lift represented a shift in my identity as a parent—the relinquishing of my role as the “mom who can do it all.” My son is growing—he’s getting heavier, resembling a young horse that occasionally kicks during my attempts to carry him up the stairs.
When he was a baby, I was always there, suctioning his trach in the dead of night. As he grew into a toddler, I learned to understand his needs without words. Just last year, I could still carry him effortlessly, and we celebrated those moments with joy. But as my strength waned and the stairs began to feel like a steep mountain, I realized changes were necessary.
Despite my fears, this transformation was inevitable. It was just the two of us, together as always, our weights intertwined. As the last nail was driven into the lift’s structure and the first test run completed, I stood there with my son, contemplating my mixed emotions.
But it’s my responsibility.
But my back is aching.
But I cherish holding him close.
But he needs to explore.
But he’s still my baby.
With these thoughts swirling in my mind, we took the plunge and hopped onto the lift for our inaugural ride. I sang, tears streamed down my face, and he pressed the button by himself, laughing and signing for “more” as we went up and down until his little finger grew tired.
Like many aspects of parenting, this experience turned out to exceed my expectations. My worries faded away as I watched him find a new sense of independence and joy. That’s all I desire for him—more life that belongs to him. Still, I can’t help but feel a lingering ache, like a phantom pain, from the absence of his weight in my arms. He’s still my little boy, and while I struggle to let go, he deserves the freedom to roam.
For more insights into navigating parenting challenges, check out our other blog posts, including one about fertility boosters for men at Make A Mom. You can also find valuable resources on pregnancy at CDC. For an in-depth look at related topics, visit Modern Family Blog.