…where a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing ‘em over here.

Go:

It would be so easy to trust the “experts”. After all, they’ve earned those accolades for a reason they tell me. They’ve studied and learned, and volunteered and worked and have been assured they know what to do. Nine times out of ten their expertise, it is spot on. Only I fear we are that tenth. No, I know that we are that tenth spot.

There is a certain level of comfort in being able to stand shoulder to shoulder with that someone who knows more than you. That someone, that with all of their expertise will take the lead. It takes stepping out of that comfort zone, putting one foot firmly in front of the other to step up and share your own knowledge, your heart, your mind, what you know- and to trust it is true enough for the day ahead.

And if I can’t trust what I know, how can I expect the others to do just that? I question myself day in, day out. I wonder if I know all I need to know to grow her, to educate her, to show her how to trust what she already knows about herself.

They came to me before she was even born to tell me what to expect, what to do, how to do it. To question my knowledge, my intuition, what I saw in her sameness, what I would see in the days ahead, how I would feel and how I would or would not know her. Then when she was born, they came to me again to tell me what I can expect- these experts with all their confident jargon and phrases. They tell me they’ve met others like her, that they’ve read all about her, that they know her and her special needs best.

Then she is born, she cries, she latches on to me and as she wakes her blue eyes sparkle while tracking me across the room. Her silent voice echos Momma in her heart, until it can no longer be silent, can no longer be contained there and it reverberates in all its impassioned righteous cries of “My Momma!!!” Each morning, she stands in front of the refrigerator stomping her own two strong feet crying “My Momma!!!” while I pry her small starfish hands again and again from my calves in the rush to leave for work, taking with her that essential piece of me she has always held.

Each evening I return as those same small hands fold into their home around my neck and she whispers our secret in my ear. “My momma.”, she tells me patting my cheeks, my back, welcoming me home. She shows me that she knows. That only she is the expert, she is who I will stand shoulder to shoulder with and she is who will bring me that comfort I crave.

Stop.