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I have a dyslexic child.  Because my child is dyslexic he has certain needs from an educational perspective.  I do not question his needs.  I do not question the fact that as his mother, I’m the only one who will fight for him.  I’ve dedicated my whole self to what he needs, and I’ve done so without question or remorse.

This is the parental role.  We just do.

We were blessed with these children who we either birthed, adopted or through the tragedy of life, inherited.  We were grateful for who they were, instantly.  We’ve never questioned their perfection.  We’ve never walked away from the dream of who they will be.

As their parent, it’s just a part of who we are.  The thought has never crossed my mind that I shouldn’t help him, that I shouldn’t fight for him, that someone else can do it, or that I will just trust in others to manage it for me.

I do this because I am his mother and he is my child.

It’s like taking a drink when you’re thirsty.  It’s like eating food when you’re hungry.  The brain sends signals and I obey, but unlike thirst or hunger, I do this because my heart and soul send the same command.

And it’s all born out of love.

He asked me once how God made him.  I told him that his daddy and I prayed very hard that we would have a child and when God decided the time was right he crafted him out of a piece of our hearts.  God took a piece of my heart and a piece from his father’s heart and he created this child.  His every heart beat is our own; his every breath.

The funny thing is he asked me once if someone took an x-ray of my heart could he see where God had taken the piece away to make his heart.  I told him I wasn’t sure, but I could feel my heart beating inside his chest.  Then my precious boy looked at me and said he could too.

So we stand up.  We fight.  We demand.  We negotiate.  We do whatever we have to.

And we do it all without thanks, or so I thought.

Because I never asked for thanks.  I never wanted thanks.  I never expected or assumed thanks was needed.

Then my husband walked over to me last night and said, “I know I never say this, but thank you for how hard you fight, for what you do and give to our son.”

The next day, upon reflection, that honestly brings happy tears to my eyes as well as the realization that few of us will receive the acknowledgement that we are doing the right thing, that we are fighting the good fight.

So let me say to you, thank you for fighting for your child.  You’re doing an amazing job!  Keep up the good work, the good fight.  Myself and others are here to help you if you need it.  Until then, thank you for being you!


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