Left foot, left foot. Right foot, right..
“Ow,” he says, pointing at the toe of his brace. “Mama, OFF. OW,” he says, tugging at the toe. I can see that he has not outgrown it yet. It might rub in some places, but they all do, and he’s worn this one long enough now that this should not be new. “OFF.”
Feet in the day, and feet in the night.
“Chews,” he tells me, bringing me his ankle high boots. “Right dere. Deese chews,” he says. These shoes, he knows, won’t fit over his brace. And we don’t let him wear them often because of that, but because of that, when he DOES wear them, we don’t wear the brace. “Right dere,” he states again, pointing.
Wet foot, dry foot, low foot, high foot..
He’s stretching, trying to reach the countertops. He can’t do that on the left foot, so his weight shifts to his right one. He can now see everything. “UP,” he says, now enticed by the cookies on the counter. “Up, pleeeease, choochies?” His left foot dangles in the air, all but useless in this endeavor.
Back feet, front feet, feet feet feet.
“MAIL,” he announces as we pull into the driveway. Daily, like clockwork, we dance and run up the driveway to the Blue’s Clues song. His gait is only slightly off, his smile from ear to ear. “Un, too, fee!” he shouts, jumping a mere inch or two off the ground. “Cuhwor?” he asks, pointing to his bucket of sidewalk chalk. There is nothing to mourn here, I convince myself. We have a long road ahead, sure, but look.. look at how perfect he is. Physical therapy, surgery, being the different one.. it is all perfect now. Stop worrying. It’s all perfect now.
“MAH-ma!” he shouts, his voice peaking in the middle. I’m shaken from my worry.
My, what a lot of feet we meet.
(The Foot Book, by Dr. Seuss – one of Tony’s faves)
Beautiful. And you’re right: not a thing to mourn.
Oh, Sarah. I’m crying now.
You have such a beautiful son, such a beautiful, perfect boy. I remember these fears well; when Madeline went through physical therapy it was incredibly painful (for both of us, which made it all the more so for me). I can only imagine what you’re going through knowing there is still more in front of you.
I’m going to second the above commenter: not a thing to mourn, not for such a fantastic and brilliant boy.
Hugs to you both.
bessie.viola´s last blog ..not much
I know that I don’t have kids, and as such anything I say is discarded as a “well, wait till you have kids”. I don’t have kids. I have a nephew. He is different, but I don’t think about it, and I don’t feel sad about it. Not because I’m heartless, but because the way I see it, each time I feel sad about the foot, or pity him, I take away the chance to enable him, and instead I end up disabling him. I figure, my job is to be ok with the foot, to not see the foot, to not see what he can’t do. My job is to see Tony, and teach Tony that he’s fine the way he is, and if he has to stand on one foot instead of two, I’m going to be ok with that too. I may be secretly amazed at how resilient children are, but I won’t tell him. I’ll tell him that he can’t have the cookies and go about my business. By my logic, if I don’t focus on the “difference” he won’t either and he’ll be able to cope with anything that comes his way.
Wow, Sarah. What a great little guy & great family. (I found your blog thru Mike Malone.) I understand, a bit, what you’re going through, too, even though Kyle’s was a cleft palate. Yep, long road, but, really, just perfect. Right here, right now, right in your heart.
He’s adorable and perfect. He. will. have. a. fantastic. life. Because he has two fantastic parents and he’s a fantastic kid.
Is it Tony’s left leg? I ask because Matthew’s left leg is shorter (as well as club and nerve damaged).
I too read that book to Matthew and think the same things. It can be so hard, and yet, these kids make it seem, so, simple.
I try to take my lead from Matthew. He amazes me. I can only hope that one day, he says the same of me.
You are such a good mom, Sarah! Tony is a perfect little boy that will continue to amaze you. Hugs to that little one!