Many of you I have never even met face to face,
but I've searched you out every day.
I've looked for you on the Internet,
on playgrounds and in grocery stores.
I've become an expert at identifying you.

You are well worn.
You are stronger than you ever wanted to be.
Your words ring experience,
experience you culled with your very heart and soul.
You are compassionate beyond the expectations of this world.
You are my "sisters."
Yes, you and I, my friend, are sisters in a sorority.
A very elite sorority.

We are special.
Just like any other sorority,
we were chosen to be members.
Some of us were invited to join immediately,
some not for months or even years.
Some of us even tried to refuse membership, but to no avail.
We were initiated in neurologist's offices and NICUs,
in obstetrician's offices, in emergency rooms,
and during ultrasounds.
We were initiated with somber telephone calls,
consultations, evaluations, bloodtests, x-rays, MRI
films, and heart surgeries.

All of us have one thing in common.
One day things were fine.
We were pregnant, or we had just given birth,
or we were nursing our newborn, or we were playing
with our toddler.
Yes, one minute everything was fine.
Then, whether it happened in an instant, as it often does,
or over the course of a few weeks or months, our
entire lives changed.
Something wasn't quite right.
Then we found ourselves mothers of children with
special needs.

We are united, we sisters, regardless of the diversity
of our children's special needs.
Some of our children undergo chemotherapy.
Some need respirators and ventilators.
Some are unable to talk, some are unable to walk.
Some eat through feeding tubes.
Some live in a different world.
We do not discriminate against those mothers whose
children's needs are not as"special" as our child's.
We have mutual respect and empathy for all the women
who walk in our shoes.

We are knowledgeable.
We have educated ourselves with whatever materials we could find.
We know "the"specialists in the field.
We know "the" neurologists,"the" hospitals, "the"
wonder drugs, "the" treatments.
We know "the" tests that need to be done,
we know"the" degenerative and progressive diseases
and we hold our breath while our children are tested for them.

Without formal education,
we could become board certified in neurology,
endocrinology, and psychology.
We have taken on our insurance companies and schoolboards
to get what our children need to survive, and to flourish.
We have prevailed upon the State to include
augmentative communication devices
in special education classes and mainstream schools
for our children with cerebral palsy.
We have labored to prove to insurance companies
the medical necessity of gait trainers
and other adaptive equipment for our children with
spinal cord defects.
We have sued municipalities to have our children
properly classified so they could receive education
and evaluation commensurate with their diagnosis.

We have learned to deal with the rest of the world,
even if that means walking away from it.
We have tolerated scorn in supermarkets
during"tantrums" and gritted our teeth while
discipline was advocated by the person behind us in line.
We have tolerated inane suggestions and home remedies
from well-meaning strangers.
We have tolerated mothers of children without special needs
complaining about chicken pox and ear infections.
We have learned that many of our closest friends can't understand
what it's like to be in our sorority,
and don't even want to try.

We have our own personal copies of Emily Perl
Kingsley's "A Trip To Holland " and Erma Bombeck's
"The Special Mother".
We keep them by our bedside and read and reread them
during our toughest hours.
We have coped with holidays.
We have found ways to get our physically handicapped children
to the neighbors' front doors on Halloween,
and we have found ways to help our deaf children form
the words, "trick or treat."
We have accepted that our children with sensory
dysfunction will never wear velvet or lace on Christmas.
We have painted a canvas of lights and a blazing Yule
log with our words for our blind children.
We have pureed turkey on Thanksgiving.
We have bought white chocolate bunnies for Easter.
And all the while, we have tried to create a festive
atmosphere for the rest of our family.

We've gotten up every morning since our journey began
wondering how we'd make it through another day, and
gone to bed every evening not sure how we did it.
We've mourned the fact that we never got to relax and
sip red wine in Italy . We've mourned the fact that
our trip to Holland has required much more baggage
than we ever imagined when we first visited the travel agent.
And we've mourned because we left for the airport
without most of the things we needed for the trip.

But we, sisters, we keep the faith always.
We never stop believing.
Our love for our special children and
our belief in all that they will achieve
in life knows no bounds.
We dream of them scoring touchdowns and extra points
and home runs.
We visualize them running sprints and marathons.
We dream of them planting vegetable seeds, riding
horses and chopping down trees.
We hear their angelic voices singing Christmas carols.
We see their palettes smeared with watercolors,
and their fingers flying over ivory keys in a concert hall.
We are amazed at the grace of their pirouettes.
We never, never stop believing in all they will
accomplish as they pass through this world.

But in the meantime, my sisters, the most important thing we do,
is hold tight to their little hands as together,
we special mothers and our special children, reach for the stars.