I’m a big fan of making life easier for future me. So much so that zippi-ty-do-da-daying into the unknown and bonding with discomfort are blossoming into friends of mine. The shadow is an old poker pal of days long; his sorrowful tale is one I often pull up a chair to and nod.
My daughter’s leg bone curved like an s in the womb. As she grew, it straightened, and now at three years old, the left leg is no different than the right, except in length. She walked early, rides bikes, jumps, and dances. Her run is skippity, and at times uses one to lean on the other, but that’s the only way you’d know.
But now she knows. “My little leg,” she called it tonight, her red splotchy, tear-streaked face showing the inner workings of her bubbly cauldron. I rubbed her back, kissed her forehead, and focused all my truth on her, “It is strong. It is so very strong. It takes you up steps and swings you on the trampoline bar.” But she fought for her limitations, “I can’t run or jump.” Unable to sway the jury, I told her we’ll practice with it in the morning. And that seemed to work; she’s sleeping now.
I know the surgeries, the recovery time, and the prognosis of the future of her leg. It’s doable and scary, but I’ve observed her condition play out for parents and children in an online support group. She’ll learn of her resiliency and tenacity, and she’ll, we’ll get through this, and I’m hopeful we’ll be better for it.
Thanks for being here; I really appreciate it.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 