(Note: This was originally published in the July 2023 DFWChild Special Needs Newsletter.)

This month’s newsletter is brought to you by the letter B – as in “Plan B” and “best-laid plans.”

Plan A was that this would be a newsletter about how summers look different for mothers of children with special needs, and how crucial it is that we develop habits of revitalizing self-care. Stated another way – just like the flight attendants tell us pre-flight, we must put on our own oxygen masks before we help others with theirs. I watched TED talks, read articles, and waxed eloquent on how mothers must fill our metaphorical tanks, because we are useless to those we love if we’re running on empty.

Then? As it often happens, life shattered my Plan A.  

My daughter’s bedroom light had been out for about six days, and, for reasons I still don’t quite understand, despite having a writing deadline mere hours away, I just HAD to replace those light bulbs RIGHT THEN.

So, to the garage I went to get a ladder, which I maneuvered upstairs and into my daughter’s room. I soon realized that her bed was directly under the light fixture; there was nowhere I could place the ladder that wouldn’t require me to lean awkwardly to reach the heavy ceiling-mounted fixture; and, even once I could reach it, unscrewing and then lowering it was probably definitely NOT a one-person job.

A wise woman would have seen her limits and waited to do this chore until her husband – just feet away, wrapping up a work call – could come in and help.

I… was not wise.

Undaunted by common sense, I ascended the ladder and began unraveling the screw at the base of the fixture – first, slowly, then, more quickly as I realized it was almost loose. Once I unscrewed the glass – and OH – did I mention it was quite heavy, thick glass? – fixture, I realized I couldn’t lower it carefully without falling from the ladder.

I paused briefly enough to realize that something was going to drop – me or the light fixture.

The good news is that I’m not typing this from a hospital bed while rocking a body cast. But the not-so-stellar news is that the heavy fixture took the plunge that I didn’t, meaning this five-minute task became an hour-plus saga of cleaning up hundreds of shards and chunks of glass.

This snafu taught me two key lessons… also brought to you by the letter B.

  1. Breathe. There are so many things to do when our kids have unique needs. It’s overwhelming, and there’s no doubt that we work hard. But we can either work harder, not smarter – as I did with this light bulb fiasco – or, work smarter, not harder. Part of putting on our own masks first means we simplify as much as possible. We take deep breaths. We prioritize. We decide what tasks are must-dos, what tasks are nice-to-dos, and then we act. But when we can’t do it all on our own?
  2. Build – and use – the buddy system. Even if we have the whole putting-on-our-masks-first thing down, sometimes, our oxygen tanks run low. What we MUST do is find and rely on our people, the ones who put their masks on first so they can help us. Find these people, and don’t be too proud to ask for their help. Perhaps if I had, the simple task of changing a light bulb wouldn’t have ended in actual blood, sweat, and tears.

My guess is that the Plan A life eludes most of us, and usually, our expectations wind up as shattered as the glass in my girl’s room. But my hope is that we grow wise enough to breathe in the good, exhale the bad, and, as often as possible, share air with those who have our backs.