The Perfect Mom

When I ask you to stop and imagine what the “perfect mom” looks like, you might imagine an endlessly patient, organized beauty. Maybe she’s wearing her baby in a backpack, has a cooking spoon in her hand, and a burp cloth on her shoulder. Her hair is in a sloppy-but-beautiful bun on her head and she’s managing an oven of delicious smells.

What you’re probably not picturing is a woman sitting in a wheelchair, balancing on a cane, riding up the stairs on a stair lift, or using an aid for something that able-bodied people can accomplish without second thought. I don’t fault you for the bias, either; the cultural image of a “perfect mom,” or even just “a mom,” is often an idealized and unrealistic figure that the media and the physically typical majority construct. Motherhood is just another box that disability doesn’t fit easily into.

My reality is that I’m dependent on a wheelchair, my son turned two years old last month, and I have the same – if not stronger – desire as any other mom to raise a capable, empathetic, and grounded man.

For the past two years, that has looked like: a lot of breaking down my expectations for what motherhood would look like, a lot of my actual breakdowns, and loads of adjustments and substitutions to take care of what is needed. To say it more dramatically, I had to throw those expectations out the window. And not just throw them, but pitch them into a fire.

There is a light on in this tunnel, though, and it shows as a powerful and consistent theme throughout my motherhood: my disability has been my strength. At the end of the day, being in a wheelchair has allowed me to approach things differently and in ways I believe are better than if I was walking. To name a few off a list: my son can and does ride on my lap throughout the day; I live and function at his eye level; and his exposure to my disability will foster compassion and strength for the rest of his life.

I’m not saying parenting in a wheelchair is all smooth sailing; I’ll acknowledge the challenges so I don’t come off as completely detached from reality. There are plenty: I’m not able to chase around the grass with my perpetually-running toddler; as he gets bigger, lifting him onto the changing table is a challenge; I go to bed with an aching back every single day; and I can’t sit on the floor or lean into his bed over for an extended time, lest I get a wound. The obnoxious reality of life, especially mine after becoming paralyzed, is that good things rarely happen without some struggle, modifications, and aching back muscles.

Being a mother has been a beautiful ride that I hold so close to my heart. I might not be the “perfect mom,” but I am one heck of a good one. And I’m exactly where I’m meant to be: with my son’s food crumbs scattered between my legs, drool smeared across my knee, and maybe a bit of diaper poop on my finger.

Just kidding about the last one. I’ll wash my hands, and I’ll smile the whole time I do it. That, my friends, is the kind of thing only a mama can delight in.