If you read my “Burdens” entry from about a week ago, then you already know that I’ve been agonizing over an important decision that may well affect the course of my son’s life.
A couple of days after I wrote that, I was sinking into a miserable fog of indecision. I’d been doing so much praying over this; I’d been trying to listen to whatever God was trying to tell me. But things only seemed to get murkier.
Then, slowly, the fog began to lift; my head cleared and my thoughts began to gel. I listened, quietly, for what I could hear in the silence. Then I made my decision.
Is that really what a parent’s “instinct” is – God speaking to us, touching us briefly with His wisdom, allowing us to feel that we alone can “know” what’s best for our children?
At last I feel peaceful, that the decision I’ve made is the right thing to do, the right thing for my son; maybe not for someone else’s son, maybe not for most people’s sons. I don’t know and really, what does it matter if it would be right for someone else? It feels right for him and right for me; and in this kind of intensely personal situation, that’s all that does matter.
I’ve listened to many differing opinions; I’ve sought the often-conflicting advice of numerous paid professionals. All of this, while extremely helpful, also contributed to my initial confusion, my inability to wholeheartedly embrace one solution as the “right” one.
I think that what finally enabled me – really, empowered me – to decide was when I grasped this fact: not one of these people, professional or non-professional, has a crystal ball. Not one of them can see into my child’s future and tell me with certainty that “x” approach will produce the desired “y” result. Not one of them can say that what they think is any more “right” than what I think.
I, on the other hand, have the distinct advantage of knowing my child better than anyone else does. I realized that following my instincts about the direction to take was, in reality, the only way I could decide from among a number of legitimate, reasonable alternatives.
Otherwise I may as well have stuck them all on a board and let a dart decide.
That’s when I finally understood the difference between being my son’s mother and being anyone else. Anyone else could take the facts and probabilities and make a decision. Only I could take the same facts and probabilities, combine them with my intuitive sense of him, my unconditional love for him, and then make a decision.
It’s fair to ask me, “What makes you think that this will work out?” I don’t know; I don’t have a crystal ball either. All I know is that I’ve reached a decision that both my son and I agree we can live with, that we both believe we can make work. I couldn’t say that about any of the other choices.
One of the people with whom I consulted during this process was a former boss of mine: a retired school superintendent who, like me, is the mother of an only child, a boy. Her closing words of advice in an e-mail to me managed to summarize my instincts exactly:
“Keep consulting with the professionals who know (your son’s) needs more fully – and then follow your heart.”