The rising 3rd-5th grade kids in our
church left for camp today. Look Up Lodge is a rite of passage and my Facebook feed is full of pictures of happy
campers. I’m excited for all of them. I truly am.

But a little part of me is crying.

The little part that every now and then rebels against the
reality that is my life. Because I didn’t take my rising 5th grader
to Look Up Lodge this morning.

I spent the morning researching GPS tracking devices for
her.

I don’t often write about Emma or about being a “special
needs” parent. Mainly because most of the time, I don’t think of myself that
way.

I don’t dwell on the allergy-free meals, the medications,
the pullups, the therapies, the doctor visits, the IEP meetings, the underlying
but ever-present frustration of having a child who cannot tell you about her
day, or the uncertainty of her future.

Just reading that list is depressing. If I thought about it
all the time, I’d need to be sedated.

Instead, I think about the way she yells, “Mommy!” every
single time she sees me. The way she is fearless in her style. The way she
insists on an upside down piggy back ride up the stairs before she goes to bed.
The way she refuses to leave the house without a bow in her hair. 

The way she
swings with abandon and spins with joy. The way she’s obsessed with
toothbrushes and Goldilocks and sign language. The way she has wrapped pretty
much everyone who has ever come into contact with her around her little finger.

But last week, when she wandered from our yard and
disappeared for over an hour…when I had to explain to the police that they
could call for her but she might not answer…when I ran up and down the streets
and barged through my neighbors’ back yards…when I watched the officer put her
pillowcase in a plastic bag so the bloodhound could get her scent…

In that hour, I felt every second of the last 11½ years of
special needs parenting.

And all I wanted was the privilege of doing it for the rest
of my life.

There are many more rites of passage to come. Some will
sting. Some will throb. Some will leave me sobbing in the shower.

But then she will come down the stairs in her footed pajamas
and she’ll yell, “Mommy!”

And it will be okay.

*Emma was safe and sound the entire time. She’d wandered
into our neighbors’ home and was playing in their playroom. They were not at
home, but found her when they returned to a cul-de-sac full of police cars.

We cannot ever fully express our gratitude to the family,
friends, neighbors, lawn care workers, mail carriers, and police officers who
joined in the search. We are so blessed.