First Steps

There are days in motherhood when you question the wisdom of choosing to bring a child into your life. There are other days when you wonder why you didn’t do it sooner.

And then there are days that just lay you out.

When my son was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy, much of the anticipation of meeting developmental milestones was lost. He was on a timeline all his own, and there were other matters that took precedence over the exact date he would roll over, sit up or walk.

His doctors promised that he would walk; it was a matter of when, not if. He would walk, but first we needed to get him ready. His legs needed strengthening, and he needed to understand what it felt like to stand on both legs, even though he was scarcely aware of the entire right side of his body.

And so every day, for fifteen minutes, I would stand that child up against a wall in the living room and – smiling and reaching out – beckon him to walk to me.

And every day, for fifteen minutes, he screamed like I was repeatedly poking him with a cattle prod.

I cajoled. I soothed. Once in a while, I lost it myself.

On and on this went, but he would not attempt a step.

Mobility was not an issue, however. He never crawled, but learned to scoot along on his butt, propelled by his good leg and arm. He could scoot up and down stairs, and cross the house as fast as I could walk.

He was just fine, thanks.

“Has he taken any steps yet?” his doctor would ask at each visit, every three months. Every ‘no’ I uttered was a stamp of failure on my part, a sign that I had seriously miscalculated when I assumed I could handle this mothering thing. It was my responsibility to make him walk; that he wasn’t, meant I wasn’t doing my job.

The next day I would summon fresh guilt to subject my little boy to what he surely must have thought was torture – to subject myself to what absolutely qualified as torture. I was learning the hard way that motherhood was doing what was necessary, even when it was unpleasant.

I persisted. He resisted.

At three and a half, he’d yet to attempt even a tentative first step. He was having none of it.

Then one day, my husband and I went to the movies. Without the child. A much-needed break to try to remember how we got into this parenting thing in the first place. Our son was safely ensconced with my in-laws and his six-year-old cousin.

We returned, refreshed and renewed, to a lot of excitement. My baby had taken his first step. His cousin had put him up against the wall and called to him and he walked.

Just like that.

And he kept on walking. He walked like he had been walking for months.

I was elated…and devastated. All the blood, sweat and tears. All the anxiety. All the screaming. And a six year old claps her hands and gets my first steps.

Welcome to motherhood.

Megan Gordon is a mother, writer, photographer and dreamer. She looks for balance in all things and sometimes even finds it. You can see what’s on her mind on her blog, One Thousand Words Or More.