Misperceptions, by Melanie Marten

To the lady at the counter in the craft store yesterday,

You may not have realized I heard you as we stood next to each other at the craft store counter yesterday, though your words were obviously meant for me. As you were rolling your eyes and grumbling about how mothers should control their out-of-control, noisy children in stores, I was too busy reveling in the blessing that is my son to react to your words.

Contrary to your belief, my son was not making loud noises, dancing and jumping because he is an ill-behaved child. He was not a brat getting away with disrupting a checkout line under the nose of his tired mother, me.

My son is autistic. (more…)

Twitter Digg Facebook linked-in Yahoo Buzz StumbleUpon

Can’t Count to Five

The following Unsent Letter was sent to me anonymously and was donated to be put on the blog. I do not know who wrote it. She requested I include the information at the end of the letter. I don’t know if the letter is true or not, but I don’t think when you read it that it’s going to matter. I cried through editing it, so be forewarned.


My Dearest Baby Boy,

Sometimes when you are sleeping, I watch you lying there, so peaceful. I believe with all my heart that the world would be a better place if we could all know the peace of a sleeping child.

You’re young now, but you’re strong and beautiful and perfect. One day, you’re going to grow up and you’ll think back on these times, and you’ll remember. When you do, I hope you remember how I am now, and not how I’m going to become. This is the mother I want you to see me as. I suppose if there is one consolation to this it’s that I will always be eternally youthful in your memories.

Right now, you don’t understand the big grown up words that are being said around you. You don’t understand what Stage Four means. You don’t realize that, even though you have learned to count to 10 now, that when it comes to Cancer, five doesn’t come after four. Four is as high as Cancer can count, my darling boy.

I know you don’t understand words like blood tests, and hospice and home health. You don’t even seem to notice that mama doesn’t have hair like the other kids’ moms do. You still touch my face when I’m sleeping and tell me, “Pretty, mama.” And so I am, because of you. The only thing you know is that mama sleeps a lot, and she doesn’t wrestle on the floor with you much anymore. In a way, I’m glad that’s all you know. (more…)

Twitter Digg Facebook linked-in Yahoo Buzz StumbleUpon