There was a boy

at the grocery store the other day. He was strikingly handsome, catching my eye from isles away. Blonde curls that fell just above his shoulders and steely blue eyes the color of ocean at midday. He seemed out of place among the mothers moving systematically up and down the isles. Home schooled I concluded. We met up in front of the pasta. I waited my turn patiently a few feet behind as his mother read the labels. "She's looking at me," he said loudly as I averted my eyes. She gave an experienced reply under her breath. "She's still watching me!" I excused myself and reached through them at that point to grab my spaghetti. No need to prolong his misery. As I pushed my cart through the end of the isle I had to restrain myself from turning back and hugging his mother. I wanted to tell her how fantastic she was doing, how her calm disposition and label reading were inspirational to me. I wanted to tell her that her son was beautiful, inside and out. I wanted to tell her that "I get it."

Our oldest hadn't been in kindergarten a week before I got a call from his teacher. (I'm reasonably sure that was the point my phone number made it onto the school's speed dial.) She suggested parenting classes, implementing more chores at home and a daily behavioral chart. It was crystal clear that our parenting was in question. No surprise to me . . . I'd been questioning it myself for the past 5 years.

Our third son, diagnosed with PDD-Nos (pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified), was a student in her class 5 years later. We worked hand in hand to help him integrate and the results were astounding. He was an absolute shining star. She and I shared tears of joy and celebration on many occasions. She introduced me to her family, offered to teach me how to make Mac videos over the summer, and raved about my amazing parenting skills to everyone she came in contact with. She's even given my number to other mothers of special needs children.

I've realized through this experience and many more like it that I'm not a bad mother. I'm not a miracle mother. I'm a fine mother.

So send kind looks to those mothers in the grocery store . . . those mothers that are homeschooling, reading labels and exercising more patience than seems humanly possible. Things aren't always as they seem.

*disclaimer: I absolutely LOVE the boys kindergarten teacher. She has truly been an answer to prayers. Both of the boys have had their struggles in school and otherwise but it's had it's blessings. They are wise beyond their years, having learned lessons that take most of us a lifetime to learn.