So, just to put everyone’s minds at ease: that boy is fine. I mean, LOOK AT HIM. He is a yawn away from being comatose. Even when a screeching cast saw was coming at him, he barely widened his eyes. He makes Gandhi look like a candidate for Ritalin therapy.
Long story short: you can read about the day at Bryan’s site. I could rehash the same story here, but I’m still not really sure how I feel about it. Being the hippie mom that I am, I seem to be faced with a whole world of questions and very few answers.
Do we want to perform leg-lengthening surgery before he starts school, or wait until he’s in his teens? Jesus, I don’t want to do it. EVER. It’s painful, it’s long, and it’s multi-phase. It involves breaking his bones and setting them with bone grafts. And while I think that he’d be better equipped to mentally handle the trauma and pain if he were older, then he’d have to endure the trauma and pain of being younger as “the kid with a lift in his shoe”. And is that really worth the trade off? I dunno. And while we’re on that topic..
How different do I want my child to be? None. I want him to be none different. But, see, I’m a hippie. And I want him to know that he IS different. We ALL are. We are all different, unique in our strengths AND our weaknesses, and we are beautiful because of them. We are all perfect creatures as we were made. Except? I don’t want him to have to learn that by being the one kid who IS different.
It’s really a flood of emotions, knowing kids can be SO cruel as it is and still having yet another open wound for them to grind salt into. And while I want him to be loving and compassionate and embrace everyone as they are, I know that not all parents will teach that and not all children will learn that.
We call it his “lucky foot” because we want him to be able to realize that it has made him lucky. He had to be different and because of that, he was lucky enough to be stronger for it, be smarter for it, be compassionate because of it.
There is no question that we make light of the situation around our house and in our circle of friends. But when I hold his hands and he works so hard to stepstepstep to something, and then he crooks his little neck to observe that one foot, that one ankle that works so differently than the other, and he furrows his brow as if to say, “COME ON, FOOT, JUST WORK LIKE THE OTHER ONE”, well, there is nothing funny about that. It is, frankly, heartbreaking. And it rips me up.
So. There you have it. If I’m a little quieter than usual, you know why. The outcome was not horrible.. there WAS improvement, but we may have to expedite the surgical options, and we’re definitely jumping into the brace ocean with both lucky feet. But now we face the harsh reality of what our child is up against. And how I wish I could fight all of those battles for him.
That was so much heavier than I meant for it to be when I started, and I apologize. I owe a Dear Binja for his nine month, which technically began on Sunday, but until I can digest this latest venture, I’m not sure I can give it the proper attention. So bear with me and just lap up these uber cute pics of my precious little baby boy.
At the doctor’s office, pre-cast. He is such a charmer.
My birthday dinner at our cajun haunt, playing with Grandmommy Brown.
A moment in time shot: driving back from Atlanta, The Boy konked out. The Binja started lovingly rubbing his head. Too precious.
A sunny day in our front yard. Look at the pinchableness of my babeh!
Probably my favorite pic of all time. So proud of himself. And grossed out as I was, I couldn’t help but laugh.