My cousin is a therapist. She often has wonderful advice, and of all the wisdom she has imparted over the years, this is my favorite. “Sometimes,” she says, “you just have to give it up to Jesus.”

Mind you, we’re Jewish.

But what she means, and what I try to remember in raising two kids with special needs, is that sometimes, I have to just let it go. I need to stop wondering if my firstborn has ADHD because I loved him too much when he was an infant, always jumping in his face with some colorful stuffed creature, singing a song about caterpillars wiggling through the garden when all he wanted to do was go to sleep. Or if my second son -– an interesting blend of language delays, sensory processing issues and anxiety -– has trouble regulating his emotions because I didn’t look him in the eye enough when he was a babe in arms. (How could I? I was too busy keeping his older brother off of tabletops and out of harm’s way.)

Well, I’ve found Jesus -- in the form of psychiatric diagnoses.

Because it wasn’t until I fully understood -- from a medical perspective –- what was going on inside my kids’ heads and bodies that I could let my breath out and realize “It’s not me. I’m not a horrible mom.” That ADHD diagnosis was a huge relief. And when my middle son’s psychologist said, “he’s not autistic. But he’s got some issues with a capital ‘I’”, I wanted to kiss her on the lips. The first step in getting help is realizing that there’s a problem.

Which is what Will Schuester said to Emma Pillsbury on Glee when he confronted her about her OCD, encouraging her to seek professional help from a doctor who acknowledged the stigma in this country surrounding mental illness. She said, “Depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar -– they’re hard to diagnose. So people don’t always appreciate that they’re serious problems.” And with tears streaming down my face, I watched as that stigma got poked just a little.

The character of Emma voiced a concern common amongst people with psychiatric disorders, as well as parents of children with these disorders, who are facing the prospect of medication. “I don’t want to start popping pills,” she said, “just so I can turn into someone that other people want me to be.”

The doctor responded with, “Your illness is not who you’re supposed to be. It’s keeping you from who you’re supposed to be.”

And then she used practically the same words that have come out of my mouth when I have talked about my son going on Ritalin. “You wouldn’t tell someone who had diabetes and needed insulin that they’re supposed to be this way.” You wouldn’t tell a child who needed glasses to just squint, or sit at the front of the class. You wouldn’t deprive an asthmatic his inhaler and tell him to slow down already and breathe deeply.

Unfortunately, we’re a long ways away from having this stigma shattered. (Hence the pseudonymous byline on this column.) Because for whatever reason, many people believe that brain-based disorders are illnesses that are just in one’s head. And if we concentrate hard enough, pray hard enough, exercise our own free will or do a better job at parenting, we can make it go away.

If only it were that simple.

I just read a book by Judith Warner, a New York Times columnist, called “We’ve Got Issues: Children and Parents in the Age of Medication.” I’d like to kiss Ms. Warner on the lips, too. She started out seven years ago intent on writing a book about our nation’s epidemic of overmedicating kids in an effort to make them all perfect. As she began to do her research, however, she learned that children are actually under-diagnosed and undertreated. Parents are not dying to medicate their children. We do it reluctantly, if we do it at all. And those of us raising kids with issues aren’t seeking perfection. We’re just hoping for normal.

Me? I’d like for my son’s classmates to call him for a play date. I’d like to not panic at the angst that befalls our household from a book report assignment. I’d love to be excited at the prospect of being snowed in with my three boys on a school day.

But I’m not there yet. And guess what? I’m not a bad mom, either.