Parenting
“You think you’re feeling anxious now? Just wait until the baby arrives! That’s when the real worries begin!” My sister-in-law, Anna, and I were having a conversation on a chilly winter evening. I was already six months pregnant with our first child, Oliver. My husband, David, and I had just come back from a final getaway in the mountains before Oliver’s arrival in a few months. I shared with Anna all about our trip but also admitted that if I hadn’t felt any movement for a while, I would deliberately drink orange juice to coax the baby into kicking.
It’s natural for expectant parents to feel stressed. The nine-month wait for a healthy baby can be challenging for anyone. My situation was even more complex. I was the first in my family to be born with a condition that left me with only one finger on each hand, shortened forearms, and a single toe on each foot. This condition, known as “ectrodactyly,” may sound complex, but it simply refers to “missing digits.” Since no one else in my family shared this condition, I naively believed it would end with me.
At our twenty-week ultrasound appointment, where most parents eagerly await to discover the gender of their baby, my focus was solely on fingers—or the lack thereof. As the doctor moved the wand across my belly, it was impossible to miss the tiny finger seemingly waving at us. We were aware of the risks, given my own experiences, but I was still taken aback. Two and a half years later, our second child, Max, would also be born with the same condition, though he had two fingers on each hand and, like Oliver, two toes on his foot.
While many people say our boys are fortunate to have me as a role model, I feel equally blessed to have my parents as mine. When I was born, they had no prior knowledge of my physical differences. One moment my mom was in labor, and the next, the doctor was saying, “Excuse me, there seems to be an abnormality…” Despite the shock and lack of experience parenting a child with such visible differences, my parents instinctively knew how to raise me. Sure, they tried things that didn’t work out—like exploring prosthetics with specialists, which I quickly rejected as a child. Even at a young age, I felt that such assistance wasn’t for me. Despite their protective instincts, my parents encouraged me to explore the world and learn through failure, whether it was walking, writing, or riding a bike. They understood that what I truly needed was the belief that I could achieve anything I set my mind to. If I failed, we joked, “Not everyone can play the flute anyway.” Interestingly, I eventually picked up the trombone!
When kids were curious about my appearance, my parents encouraged me to engage with them directly, discussing my differences and asking them questions about themselves. This approach often worked, allowing us to shift the conversation from my differences to what games we could play instead.
Beyond their passive support as I navigated crucial life lessons, my parents equipped me with the essential tools for embracing self-acceptance. One of my favorite games with my mom was called “My Little Girl.” In this, she would say, “You couldn’t be my little girl, because she has beautiful long dark hair!” I would proudly point to my hair. She’d continue, “You couldn’t be my little girl because she has the most gorgeous dark brown eyes!” and I would excitedly point to my eyes. Then, the best part would come: “You just couldn’t be my darling little girl, Mia. My Mia has only one finger on each hand!” I would wave my fingers joyfully, exclaiming, “Me! Me! I have one finger on each hand!” And then it would end with a hug, and I’d beg to play again. I’m sure my mom grew tired of it, but I never did.
My parents enforced a strict “no pity party” policy. Although I had my down days, often coming home from school in tears, there was little room for prolonged self-pity. They understood my struggles with not fitting in, but they also recognized the importance of moving on quickly and not dwelling on what I couldn’t change.
Fast forward eleven years from that ultrasound day. Oliver is now a sixth grader, Max a third grader, and their younger sister, Lily, is in first grade. Many would look at our family with visible differences and think they wouldn’t want to trade places. However, I wouldn’t change a thing about my life.
In raising our children, David and I have taken cues from my parents. We feel the instinct to protect them but strive not to overprotect. We teach them that anything is achievable. Oliver, who loves basketball and tennis, took up the guitar at summer camp, while Max, who enjoys archery and drawing, insisted on joining the baseball team last spring, even wearing a glove.
Through my unique experiences, I have come to appreciate the beauty of imperfection and have shared this understanding with my children. We nurture a belief in themselves and help them view their differences with pride rather than shame. In that sense, I no longer need to play games like “My Little Boy” with them; they already know how to celebrate what makes them unique.
If you’re exploring ways to enhance your journey into parenthood, consider looking into resources like the At-Home Insemination Kit, which can be helpful. For insights into navigating the holiday season while trying to conceive, check out this article on egg health. Additionally, the Cleveland Clinic offers an excellent resource for understanding intrauterine insemination and related topics.
In summary, embracing imperfections can lead to profound personal growth and self-acceptance. By fostering an environment of belief in possibilities, we can help our children navigate their unique journeys with confidence.