I blinked. They told me not to, but I did. Who can stop it, anyhow? None of us, that’s who. I blinked and your pudgy bare toes gripped tight to blades of green grass as you stood to your feet for the first time. I stared at you in disbelief from my knees, pausing from […]

It felt ruthless. Anything but caring, tender, or nurturing. It felt like taking life rather than giving it. But this is where my five minutes of research and a YouTube video had landed me.

Steam rises from my mug as I pour that first cup, and settle down onto the floor between a pile of boys. I know just the story. But they’re not going to like it.

My teeth clench and my foot braces hard against the floor of this shaking machine. All at once the conversations surrounding us are hushed by the droning of the wind against metal. My heart beats harder.

My boy’s words on that day stuck with me months later. Words like that often do. Not only did they show me a hard place in my heart, but they showed me a soft, strong place in my son’s heart.

Back on that day when the doctor handed me the diagnosis, we had no idea what to expect, aside from limitations. And yet, I am learning that these limitations are an invite.