Ick and Fear

Sometimes I wish I didn't have access to so much information. I mean, there is only so much time and energy in the day to deal with the stuff in front of me (or in my head), much less to take in and deal with the stuff happening all over the world, or in my own city or neighborhood even.

I can't believe how much ick is out there. It's downright depressing. My self-centered nature just wants to hide.

But others don't.

How in the world do people even get it into their heads that they could make a difference in the midst of it all? Do they not have that voice telling them that nothing they do is really going to matter anyway; that no one wants to hear their opinion? Are they truly not afraid of criticism or being wrong?

I'm amazed when I randomly jump from blog to blog how many things people can believe in passionately from politics to social issues or whatever. And often the things they choose to speak out about aren't necessarily things I would agree with, but just the fact that they believe in it and feel the need to address it publicly is amazing. It's impressive and overwhelming that they are willing to take on more than what is immediately in front of them; to go beyond their current little sphere of influence; to think that what they have to say or what they think might make a change; to risk getting on a soapbox and be seen and heard.

And I'm afraid to even put my name on my blog when I am blogging about virtually nothing.

I hate fear.

Normal vs. Special Needs Fussing

She sits there watching him, willing and telling him to "use his hands" to get a toy. They lay at his side. Sometimes his arms jerkingly raise towards the item and his hands grasp at air only to fall again back to his sides. And then he screams and fusses.

Or he is chewing/sucking (not quite sure which) on his teether which is built like a pacifier. The only teether they can use for him since he is not able to grasp and hold something to his mouth like a regular teether. It falls out. Upon noticing (noticing is good, right?), he wildly swings his head back and forth, screaming.

Or he is on the floor, trapped there by the sheer weight of his over-sized noggin. Unable to lift his head off the floor, he screams and struggles with great effort sometimes to change positions. And if by chance he makes it onto his stomach, he's stuck. Glued in one position until someone rescues him.

Her ears have been bleeding for the last few days from the sound of the baby's (20 months old now) fussing/crying. It can be incessant. Never-ending. Grating. And she sits and wonders if this is "normal" fussing or "special needs" fussing. Because if it is "normal" (which at 20 months it could be), then she can endure it. It will end someday like it did with her older kids. He will eventually be able to communicate his wants and needs, and he won't have to resort to fussing and crying.

But what if it is "special needs" fussing. What if he will never be completely able to convey his thoughts and feelings? What if he actually knows what he wants to communicate, but can't? What if he feels trapped forever? What if the incessant, never-ending, grating fussing and crying continues for, well, the rest of his life?

So how do special needs parents stay sane through stuff like this? She knows she's not the only one out there experiencing this, although she may be the only parent selfishly asking the question.

How do I endure?

Courageous, Brave and Fearless

Who writes and doesn't envision themselves as one day being published and all the world appreciating their amazing ability to put into words an experience, feeling or observation that others can relate to? Words that conjure up emotions or empathy. Words that spur others to take action.  Words that inspire. Words that are honest. Words that make you think. Words that make you want the writer to write more.

I've wondered if I could be that kind or writer. I've wanted to be that kind of writer. I've tried to be that kind of writer.

Am I even allowed to admit this out loud?

In the past couple days I have tossed around the idea of submitting something to a local magazine.  Maybe the story of our baby, maybe something else. And then there are the voices of fear - rejection, criticism, failure. And I don't do it.

Stupid, I know. To listen to these voices. Which is why I had to write about them. Perhaps if I name them and point them out, they will relinquish their hold on me. Perhaps I can be courageous, brave and fearless instead.

That's what I really want to be.