A quiet moment and a sound different from anything I'd heard at the table happened. Finley, her head resting on the table, arms crossed beneath her face like a cradle. Her voice no more than a squeak, I missed it the first time.
I ate my meal in a state of heightened alertness, whispering quick reminders to my kids not to use the butter knife as a drum stick, and to "please use your napkin to wipe off that glob of fruit on your chin instead of your forearm."
I think I speak for many moms of kids with special needs when I say we don't want pity; it's isolating. But a smile or words that say hey, motherhood is tough -- any kind of motherhood is tough -- are reassuring.
Have you ever gone to a restaurant hoping for a quiet, relaxing dining experience only to find that the table next to you is the temporary playground for a couple of rowdy kids and two stressed-out parents?