[blparent] Perspective

[Jo Elizabeth Pinto]

Thanks, Bob.  I hope to never be that terrified again as long as I live.

Jo Elizabeth

Truth is tough. It will not break, like a bubble, at a touch; nay, you may 
kick it about all day like a football, and it will be round and full at 
evening.--Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
-----Original Message----- 
From: Robert Shelton
Sent: Tuesday, November 06, 2012 9:06 PM
To: 'Blind Parents Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [blparent] Perspective

I started to reply to this, but thought I'd see what the rest of the list 
had to say, and they said it all far better than I could.  The one thing 
where I'd like to add my assent is that your experience is not unique to 
being a blind parent.  Nature calls, you step inside, and when you return, 
your kid's not there.  It all makes sense -- Dad shows up and is picking 
Sarah up, but you didn't know that.  This stuff happens to everyone, blind 
and sighted.  Just hang in there, get a good night's sleep, and it really 
will be OK.

-----Original Message-----
From: Jo Elizabeth Pinto [mailto:jopinto at msn.com]
Sent: Monday, November 05, 2012 4:20 PM
To: NFBnet Blind Parents Mailing List
Subject: [blparent] Perspective

I had one of those moments this morning, one of those moments that puts 
everything into crystal clear perspective, if only for a split second. 
Maybe I’m writing it down just to try and process it, since it’s been two 
and a half hours and I can still feel my heart racing.  I know sighted 
parents have these moments too, when they look up from examining something 
in a store and don’t see their kids, or when an ambulance goes screaming by 
and they glance around to make sure their little ones are safe.  But I think 
this one did happen because I was blind.

Sarah was riding her three-wheeled Barbie scooter on the sidewalk in front 
of our townhouse.  I went inside just for a minute or two when nature’s call 
refused to be ignored.  Then I walked back out onto the porch and called for 
Sarah to come get her stuff so her dad could take her to school.  She didn’t 
answer.  I stepped down off the porch and yelled louder, since my bum knee 
has been slowing me down and I didn’t want to walk back out to where I had 
left her loading up her scooter with rocks and pine cones under a tree in 
the neighbor’s front yard so she could bring me the “mail” again.  She still 
didn’t answer.  She’s supposed to stay on the straight sidewalk that runs in 
front of our building when she’s riding her bike or scooter unless someone 
is with her.  I had heard a big truck in the parking lot one house over from 
mine, and as I yelled again, it began to make the familiar noises of a trash 
truck.  I started screaming for Sarah, because just for that split second, 
my mind had me convinced that the sanitation driver hadn’t seen her on her 
scooter, and she was mashed under that truck.  I don’t even remember running 
down the sidewalk toward the dumpster, although my knee is now reminding me 
that I did it.  And there she was with her dad, who had just driven up to 
take her to school, both of them wondering why I was racing toward them, 
hysterical.  Dad thinks she didn’t hear me calling because of the truck.  I’m 
not sure if she didn’t hear or just decided not to answer.  But after they 
left for school, I sobbed my way through an oversized cup of coffee, two 
miniature Kit-Kat bars, and one mini-bag of Peanut M&M’s, rattled by what 
didn’t happen but could have, or what felt for a second like it really 
happened even though it didn’t.

I guess I’m telling this because I’m still seriously behind with my work, my 
house is still strewn with toys from one end to the other, my credit card is 
still maxed out, I still don’t know what I’m going to make for supper 
tonight—but my daughter didn’t get squashed by a fearsome but perfectly 
innocent trash truck.  It’s a good day.

Jo Elizabeth

Truth is tough. It will not break, like a bubble, at a touch; nay, you may 
kick it about all day like a football, and it will be round and full at 
evening.--Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.


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