You remember the children’ book Are You My Mother, right? That hilarious book about a little bird who goes in search of his mother. It’s by P.D. Eastman, author of the Dr. Seuss Cat in the Hat series. Here’s a short synopsis of the book (by Wikipedia) to jog your memory.

“Are You My Mother ” is the story about a hatchling bird. His mother, thinking her egg will stay in her nest where she left it, leaves her egg alone and flies off to find food. The baby bird hatches. He does not understand where his mother is so he goes to look for her. As he cannot fly, he walks, and in his search, he asks a kitten, a hen, a dog, and a cow if they are his mother. They each say “No”.

Refusing to give up, he sees an old car, which cannot be his mother for sure. In desperation, the hatchling calls out to a boat and a plane (they both do not respond), and at last, convinced he has found his mother, he climbs onto the teeth of an enormous power shovel.

A loud “SNORT” belches from its exhaust stack, prompting the bird to utter the immortal line, “You are not my mother! You are a SNORT!” But as it shudders and grinds into motion he cannot escape. “I want my mother!” he shouts.

But at this climactic moment, his fate is suddenly reversed. The power shovel drops him back in his nest and then his mother returns. The two are united, much to their delight, and the baby bird tells his mother about the adventure he had looking for her.”

I’ve always loved this book. And had an interesting moment or two last week reminding me of this funny book.

I was at Hudson’s school waiting outside the door to pick him up. (Hudson is five, has Down syndrome.) Little children are exiting the door one by one. After the door opens several times, out comes Hudson holding his teacher’s hand. He’s got anticipation written all over his face, scanning the crowd.

He’s looking for me. My little Hudson birdie is searching for his mother.

There’s another mom waiting right outside the door, closer than I am. She has blonde hair and wears an  orange shirt. I say that because I often wear orange and coral. So Hudson exits the door, looks around, sees her, breaks into a terrific smile. Bounds right up. There’s no mistaking it. He thinks she’s me. I’m riveted, watching, in shock.

From five or six feet away, I call “Hudson, Hudson!”

He’s right there now, practically under her nose. He’s trying to get her attention. He’s excited. Smiling. Eyes sparkling to beat the band. And the funny thing is the other mom. She doesn’t even notice him. She’s busy looking for her own little person to come out the door. And Hudson’s teacher is gently trying to re-direct him my way. And he just isn’t getting it.

It’s a strange feeling, standing there, watching Hudson giving his joy and attention to someone else. Someone who’s not his mother. Not me.

And in that split second, I realize how very much I treasure being Hudson’s mother. How thankful I am that it’s really me he’s looking for.

How much joy and love and history we share. Hudson and me.

*photo courtesy of DesignsbyLindaNee.com

I call his name again. “Hudson! Hudson, it’s mom!”

And he looks over, confused for a millisecond.

As if to say, Are you My Mother?

And then he gets it. Realizes it’s me. Bounds over. Gives me that big bear hug I crave from that precious little boy.

All’s well with the world. It’s Hudson and me again.

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Did you ever receive a gift you didn’t want? I mean, you really didn’t want or ask for. Did you cry, pitch a fit? Stamp your foot? Scream at deafening decibel: “I don’t want this! I wanted something different”?

Well I certainly hope not. That would be most impolite, quite rude. What the bratty little sugar-high kid does at his birthday party with too many guests, too many presents.

Embrace the Gift by allie taylor

The dictionary defines a gift as “something given willingly without payment, a present.” It’s great fun to receive a gift, even more so giving one. Gift giving is truly an art. A good gift giver doesn’t necessarily choose a gift according to his own personal taste.

A good gift giver considers the receiver’s taste, their interests, personality, hobbies, available space, life situation, etc. A good gift giver considers the recipient’s need. Not necessarily want or whim, doesn’t always give what the receiver asks for.

And a good receiver? Says thank you.

In April of 2010 I’m given a beautiful, custom-made gift. But not the one I ask for. Along with thousands of other expectant moms, I ask for a healthy baby. And I’m dismayed, shocked to discover I don’t receive what I ask for, pray for.

In time, shock recedes, anger wells as the permanence and reality of Hudson’s Down syndrome diagnosis and complications set in. And I behave like the bratty little birthday kid on the sugar-high at the party. Rude and demanding to the Giver. Stamp my foot. Ungrateful for my intricately woven, divinely chosen gift. God’s gift to me, our family.

I’m already blessed with three healthy boys, and my expectation is to receive yet another? Is this my due?

Monitors beep, blare as I pore over that perfect little profile in the NICU, tentatively reach through the isolette window, through tangled wires, feeding tube. Gently trace tiny velvety ears, count teeny toes. I wince at pitiful cries from blood draws on those precious little feet.

And I’m angry at the Giver. Angry for me. Angry that this baby gets no choice, receives an extra chromosome he never asked for.

Angry my family’s future has been forever changed in an instant.

I can’t see through the fog yet, don’t understand the Giver’s gifts are all good, beautiful. Don’t yet comprehend this gift was chosen tenderly, knit stitch by loving stitch with infinite care in the secret place, specifically for me, for us, our family.

For the Giver. To bring Him great pleasure and joy.

I don’t yet understand this gift will grow me, stretch me beyond myself, mold me into a different person. That in embracing, caring and advocating, I’ll experience intense pain but even deeper joy.

Don’t yet see how I’ll be forced to unravel a selfish corner of self I don’t know exists, learn self-sacrifice. That in receiving, unwrapping and embracing my gift, I’ll draw deep from the well, experience the true heart, kindness and goodness of a gracious Giver.

My eyes are wide open, but I’m blind. Eyes smarting, can’t see for the thick, stifling fog, the smothering, pressing in from every side, direction.

In time, I’ll see.

I’ll see in the silence, the quiet, the weeping. In the dark, baby rocking in the wee hours. In the loneliness. I’ll see in whispered prayers, perpetual medicine droppers. In prolonged snuggles, fluttered lashes.

I’ll see in pumping for an infant that can’t nurse. Counting precious fingers, toes. I’ll see in sacrifice. In years of reflux, changed sheets and clothes, towering laundry piles. I’ll see in the kindness, compassion, empathy of others. In staying home, missed ball games, recitals. In the first crawl at two, first labored steps at nearly four.

I’ll see in smiles, tiny triumphs, peeking mischievous eyes during dinner prayer. In sticky little fingers signing “I love you.” This is how I’ll see, drink in the grace, face of the Giver. How I’ll come to be thankful my family’s future has been forever changed in an instant. Changed for the better.

Maybe you’ve been given an unexpected “gift”, situation, diagnosis, pain. (Or several.) Something(s) you didn’t request, don’t want. Don’t know where you are in that process, your pathway to sight. Don’t be afraid.

Unwrap your gift, the one you didn’t ask for. Have faith. Believe it was carefully, lovingly chosen for you. Embrace it. Let your gift change and grow you, bless you. It might turn out to be your biggest blessing in disguise.

In time the fog will dissipate, the sun will rise again.

Hudson giggling with Dianne, September 2010

You’ll smile, maybe even laugh again.  In time, you’ll see.

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