Here's the thing.
Parenthood is a gamble, you never know what you're gonna get.
Some of us get straight
A students, others do not.
Some of us get agreeable children, that play well with others. Some do not.
Some get children who grace us with their presence for only a few minutes or days. Others get children who, it is only by the grace of God, they are healthy enough to see another day.
It's a gamble. A crap shoot. And, an arrogant one at that. Who's to say that we'd be any good at raising another human being? Is it embedded in our DNA? Is it determined by the amount of money we have, or our earning potential? Does good parenting come from being able to drive a car, or sign a marriage licence? After all, children are
human beings , not some hamster that can be replaced at the local pet store. Children have their own feelings, and ideas, and issues. Who's to say that
our way is the right way for them?
Yet, we do it anyway. Some through careful planning, others from choices we may, or may not, remember. Some parents are older and married. Some are young and alone. But the ultimate result is the same, a vulnerable child, we can mold and sculpt into our own self image. We teach them our habits and ideas, make choices for them until they are able to make their own, and pray every day that we're not scarring them for life. We read the books, consult the professionals, ask for help. Then, frustrated, we throw out the text books, giving in to the cliche that each child is different. They learn differently, sometimes need to live differently. There's a label for each and every disability, but when it comes down to it, aren't we all disabled in some way? Some are severe, and some are subtle. Some need medications, others need discipline. And here we sit, with all our infinite wisdom, trying to decide what is the best for them. And when we can not decide, we turn to the people we trust. Other parents. Doctors. Therapists. Teachers.
The other parents said that he was nuts. That their children shouldn't be friends with him. That he was hyperactive, out of control, and needed more discipline.
The teachers thought he had been traumatically scarred by his parent's divorce. They thought he'd never be mainstreamed into school. They thought he'd never be able to learn in a classroom atmosphere.
The therapists thought he needed unending therapy to uncover a deep seeded trauma. They thought perhaps Autism, although the symptoms didn't all fit quite right. They thought it was the onset of bi-polar disorder. The Hospital's doctors wanted to check him into a mental institution. Indefinitely. At 4years old.
The mother thought they were all wrong.
She knew that he was destined for something bigger. She knew he was not the "throw away" that all the professionals thought. She changed his diet. She got rid of the therapists, and got a good advocate. She was tired. She wanted to give up, she wanted to give him away. But she didn't. She traveled miles away for child care and after school programs that were a good fit for him. She spent endless days in court fighting for full custody, and the ability to make medical decisions without interference from others. She celebrated small victories, and rebounded quickly when her son complicated things with yet another challenge. She banged heads with him often, and had to change her whole way of parenting. She learned that the right way to parent him, was whatever way worked. She learned to let go of things, and start everyday with him brand new. She learned that in order to understand him, she needed to change herself. Slowly, she saw progress.
She saw his grades, in a main stream school, exceeding that of his classmates.
She saw his temperament change.
She saw his interests change.
She saw her eight year old son choose
this book from the library, and read on his own, through chapter three.
And knew she was right.
Although he still has bad days,
She knows,
he is still destined for great things.
Okay, enough of this, I'm going to try and find a moment of peace in what's left of my happy place. 
