My daughter is forty years old. From the moment she was born, once we learned that her handicap would never permit her complete independence, we surrounded her with all our love and devotion.
My parents lived with us until they died, and they too always protected and "indulged" her in every way. She grew up, then, in an affectionate home, filled with care—but also under a glass bell. Now that I'm nearly seventy, now that I see how quickly time passes, now that I think more and more often about the day when I won't be here, I understand how much I could have taught her earlier. How much would have made her more independent. She wanted that independence, but I was too anxious, too afraid, too busy to give it to her.
It was the friends from FEDE E LUCE, and the camping trips my daughter shared with them, that made me see she could do more. That she could do things on her own. And that I needed to help her learn. Today I want to say to every parent: "Be brave. Take risks. Stay alert. But make sure your child learns to do as much as possible for herself." We think about this too little. It's a grave mistake—on our part as parents, and on the part of all the professionals who work with our children.
When my daughter said to me for the first time, "Thank you, Mom, for letting me do it," I felt the sting of regret. I had always underestimated how much she could do on her own. I want to say this thinking of all those young people who could accomplish so much more if their families didn't overprotect them. I was a "mother hen" too. It took me far too long to see that I was wrong. They say it's never too late to learn, but that doesn't help us parents. What we need is courage.
Here are the moments when I found mine. My daughter—she was already grown—had never crossed the street alone. Now she does. Here's how: we live on the third floor, and there's a traffic light right outside our building. I stand at the window and tell her when it's safe to cross. The street is short, but it can be dangerous. Now she's learning, and I hope that soon she'll be able to do it on her own.
There are shops along the sidewalk where our building is, and though my daughter doesn't understand money, she often goes out to buy small things. It brings her joy and a sense of accomplishment. Other meaningful moments come when, for health reasons, she needs to help me. She helps me put on my socks, get dressed, gives me massages. She makes coffee, warms milk for my afternoon snack, does other small things. In the evening she checks that the gas is off, that the television is turned off.
All these things—small as they are—she could have learned long ago if I had given her the chance to use what she was capable of.
- A mother, 1993