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)