Not much has been going on.
Or maybe, enough has been going on that I don’t worry about the baby’s hand as much as I think I should be.
Which makes me feel impressed with the human brain all over again.
I work. I am cleaning and re-organizing the house from top to bottom. I am still raising my toddler. I am teaching. Attending conferences. Cooking.
Sometimes, there are little flashes of realization.
Opening a recalcitrant packet of peanuts on a flight.
Watching my toddler walk into the house and impatiently unzip and shrug out of her jacket.
Watching her count to 10 (or 13) on her fingers.
How will he do this? Will he look at me (and her, and his father) and realize how different he is?
The limb difference community is full of hope.
“There is nothing my child can’t do.”
“I wouldn’t change a thing about her.”
“She has made me a better person.”
It sounds wonderful, but how much of the “unique” Koolaid can a child really drink?
Children are smart. They are like little computers that don’t have much use for political correctness. They look at others (and themselves) and know immediately what’s different.
Or what’s missing.
Once in a while, amongst the messages of hope and joy, a desperate cry comes through.
“My five year old wants to grow a hand.”
“She told me angrily she doesn’t like her special hand, that she wants two hands like her friends.”
“He hid his hand in all the photos.”
It’s hard for me sometimes to find a silver lining, to think of my baby as “perfect”. He will be flawed,
like me, like his father, like his sister. No, not quite like the rest of us. He will be different. He will have to learn to deal with what he is given. He will have rough moments. I just hope and pray that he (and I) will come through those moments with grace.