It was late, and I needed stuff for lunch tomorrow. My two year old had refused to eat the vegetable soup I made today, and I knew tomorrow she would refuse the leftovers. It’s the time of the month that the cupboards don’t hold much bounty, so my husband returned his new weedeater to get us some food.
Every little bit counts.
I was just about to head to the checkout after grabbing a loaf of bread, when you rounded the corner. You grabbed a twelve pack of some beer with depictions on the box promising an ice cold one. You shouldered the beer, with your other hand under your basketball shaped belly. I could see the wince from what I imagine were those oh so wonderful round ligament pains.
You went ahead of me to the self-checkout lane, and showed the attendant your ID. And just like that you were on your way. Little did you know, you would be on my mind the rest of the night.
That beer was probably not for you. You probably bought it for your brother/husband/cousin’s sister’s niece, or any number of people in your life could have asked you to go on that beer run. At least that’s what I’m hoping. I’m hoping you weren’t buying it for yourself, and I know it’s really none of my business if you did.
It’s none of my business what you’re story is, I don’t know you, your struggles, or anything at all about you. It’s none of my business what you put into your body, pregnant or not. I know that.
But I have been praying for you.
I’ve been praying that if you did feel the need to drink tonight, something would change your mind.
If I could, I’d introduce you to my little brother. Joshua is six now. He was born prematurely, and has had a plethora of diagnoses since he was born. One of those diagnoses is Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. See, Joshua’s biological mother, along with abusing drugs, drank while she was pregnant. Joshua isn’t physically disabled, but his mind’s age will never keep up with his body’s.
So tonight, I’m praying you aren’t drinking.
It’s hard to describe, when you’ve seen firsthand what FAS is like. It’s hard to depict the way your heart breaks for the child, when he struggles making friends, because he’s different. When he wakes in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder. When he has nothing but impulse, that can sometimes be aggressive. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
But oh, is that boy sweet.
Momma, I just pray that you aren’t drinking tonight. Again, that beer probably wasn’t for you. I hope not.
SnappinSweetPea 