Updated: Nov 13, 2019
Sitting here fighting back the urge to cry, punch, kick and scream. The makings of a toddler meltdown in a thirty-three-year-old body. It's a good thing the few people I've called didn't answer. I really didn't want to talk anyway. I just didn't want to feel alone. Even with a house full of people, this feeling is still inside, punching me from the inside out.
Do you know I feel this way after every conversation regarding my child and her cognitive ability? How she is "too social" to be called mentally retarded or as they say now, "Intellectually Disabled", but in the same breathe say "Let's keep that on the table though when we re-test her in three years." Three fucking years.
I know that I am not a patient person. I think that everyone should move at the same pace I do when I think something is important. Realistic? Of course not. Frustrating? Beyond.
I wish I knew what the right steps were for my girl. My kind, compassionate artist. She is barely eight years old, and they want to, in a phone call none-the-less, reference group homes for when she is an adult. My mama-heart can't even process that.
Maybe in time and after the tears dry up, I can start to wrap my head around the information.
Until then, I am going to allow my babies to hug me and dry my tears and love them fiercely. They are far more than any label.