Not So Truthful Tuesday

I had all intentions today to tell the story of my one secret I carry around every where I go. It's with me when I wake in the morning and right by my side when my head hits the pillow every night. My one truth that only the closest to me know. The one thing I don't speak of, because it's just that painful. The truth that haunts me and my future.

But I can't.

I suppose I don't have the courage, yet, to put it out there for the world to read. To be that vulnerable. If I put it in print it will be too real. I hope to be brave enough soon, for I do think it will be helpful. There's something therapeutic about seeing it in letters.

Ellie Belly

I don't talk much about my pets. Which, in and of itself, is horrible. Before Alice, they were my children. Now they are the reason I vacuum. I have two cats and a dog. The cats I've had since I was 18 and the dog I acquired jointly with Hatta. I suppose it would be proper to say they are our pets, but in reality the dog goes where I go and the cats listen best when I call them.

Today I would like to talk about Ellie Belly. Some of you may remember a story I told back on the darkside of blogging. In said story, Ellie was stuck walking in circles, forced to walk to the left (or was it the right?) regardless of what was in her path, never able to rest. It turned out to be an ear infection, something that has plagued Ellie since as long as I can remember. If she was a toddler for sure the pediatrician would be mentioning tubes. But in Ellie's case it runs a little deeper.

Early on in Ellie's life, after many rounds of antibiotics and inacurate diagnoses, it was determined she had polyps deep in her ear. Two surgeries and thousands of dollars later, she was a happy cat. Finally for the first time in her life she wasn't on antibiotics. She was living the good life, until 2001 when she had her first seizure, followed by a few more in the weeks to come. We had her checked out by our vet and carried on. Not much thought was given to those seizures. They were merely another roadblock for Ellie to overcome, another bullet point in the list of reasons Ellie was my special needs cat.

Until last Sunday.

In one twenty four hour period Ellie had six seizures, four of them in two hours. The months leading up to Sunday Ellie had two serious ear infections and it seemed she never fully recovered from them. And, then the seizures started. One followed by four days seizure free, and then another with a few days without seizures, and then another. We knew it wasn't as simple as it was in 2001. Her appearance had changed and so had her demeanor. We knew it was finally time to visit the vet.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Seriously? Your cat had several seizures and you didn't take her to the vet?" Don't judge. We'd been there, done that...vet bills and seizure pamphlets to prove it. They discovered nothing in 2001. Speculated as likely to be a brain tumor. We've already invested hundreds and thousands of dollars attempting to give Ellie a good life. In all honesty, we knew we weren't going to pay this time to run the gauntlet of tests the vet would suggest to determine why Ellie was seizing. We just wanted Ellie to enjoy life or not have to suffer another moment. Putting a price tag on your pets well being is a difficult situation to be in, and frankly we weren't looking forward to it.

And then, there was Sunday.

I don't know if you've ever been unfortunate enough to witness an animal having a seizure, but it has to be the most helpless feeling. There is literally nothing you can do and it breaks your heart every agonizing second of it. You just want to pick up the flailing body and try to comfort the seizure away, knowing you can't you just watch...helpless and sad. And when the poor body is done twitching and shaking and spinning, it's still not over. There are after affects that last and linger for many minutes, where you sit trying to comfort an animal that's still not in this realm, still gone to this world. Try experiencing that four times in two hours. And during the last three seizures Ellie urinated, spinning and shaking her body throughout her urine. Poor Alice was there to witness a few of the seizures, her feelings of fear neglected in the moment when the safety of Ellie was more pressing. It has been a very difficult time.

Sweet Ellie was taken Sunday night to the animal ER where they allowed her to rest comfortably on Valium. She spent several nights at the vets, they ran extensive blood tests and determined she's blind (hopefully temporary) but healthy. Again, most likely a brain tumor. She's now permanently on daily anti seizure medication and hasn't had a seizure since. It seems, after a few rocky days at home adjusting to the narcotics, she's resembling her old happy self again. In fact, just today I found her on the dining table attempting to wreak havoc on my Valentine's flowers.

Early Morning Words

Still sleepy, I felt her stirring next to me in bed. I knew it was only a matter of moments, with the first glimmer of the sun peeking around the curtain, before Alice would be up and ready to go. I cherish these moments. For one, sleeping Alice is a peaceful Alice. It's the only time in the day she looks young. I see her chubby cheeks, her stubby baby fingers, fine wisps of blonde waves around her face. Sleeping, she is my beautiful, angelic baby girl. I also love this brief moment because I enjoy sleeping. My days of sleeping till nine are gone. Now, as a mom, I savor resting extra seconds every morning. I want to be the mom who gets up before the kids, spends quality alone time in the quiet house before it rises and consumes you with noise and demands. I am just not this mom. At the moment, I am satisfied lying quiet and still next to my little girl. Snuggled up next to her, I do not hear her whines and cries. I feel the love in my heart listening to every breath she takes, remembering the days long ago filled with new mom anxieties, when I'd rest my hand on her fragile infant chest to be sure she was breathing.

And just like that she's awake.

"I want to have my picture taken with Rich, too," she says without missing a beat, as if we were in the middle of a conversation.

"Uh huh," I mumble, confused and sleepy.

"I want to have my picture taken with Rich, too," she tells me again as she stretches her arms above her head.

Still unsure of what she is talking about I say nothing. I am always intrigued by her first words of the day. Given my druthers, I wouldn't speak to a soul in the morning until I have a cup of coffee in my hand. But, Alice always begins the day with excitement. She picks up exactly where she left off, either in her dream or the night before. She doesn't spare a single second of awake time, she speaks instantly. The moment her eyes are open and registering daylight she starts talking. Uttering her first word at nine months I should have known Alice would be a talker.

Not satisfied with my silence, she elaborates, "Like I got my picture taken with Santa, and I'm going to get it with Ray Rice, I wanna get my picture taken with Rich, too."

Ahh, now it's all starting to make sense. She's talking about Rich, a member of the band and Disney Junior TV show, The Imagination Movers. Rich is her favorite; he mostly plays drums.

And just like that, my baby is growing up.

This same child refused to sit on Santa's lap three years in a row, has never sat on the Easter Bunny's lap, ran screaming and crying from Curious George, was finally growing up. Her first morning statement made me smile. Hatta had told her yesterday he would take her this year to an event with Ray Rice, her favorite football player, so she could have her picture taken with him. There was discussion about the level of bravery needed in that scenario. She was photographed with Clifford the Big Red Dog during Halloween and standing in front of Santa a few weeks ago; I was confident she could do it. And, obviously, so was she. Finally, my little girl was learning the advantages of being brave. Maybe, just maybe, she's learning to dance.

Possession of a Deadly Weapon

Ever have one of those moments when you laugh out of fear of another even bigger emotion settling in? Yeah, that's been my day. Except I didn't laugh. But I am now, via letters on a screen. I will not write a sob story. I will tell the only semi funny part of it all.

Alice's school is a five minute drive from home and today after picking her up I had a four minute phone conversation with my doctor that left me worried and concerned and having to make another appointment. It's nothing too alarming yet, but needless to say, I'm not an individual that worries well.

I had one minute to try and process the phone call before I heard Alice's best friend in the back seat say, "Look! The door's open." In the middle of parrel parking, it took me a second to register what he was saying, what he had seen. I turned and saw the front door to my house wide the fuck open. My mind hit overdrive, thoughts racing trying to decide my next move. Why was the front door open? Was there someone inside? Had someone broken into my house? Oh my god, was someone with a gun in my house?! Was is just Hatta? Was he home sick from work? Had Hatta left the front door open?

Not knowing what was inside, to keep them safe, I left the kids in the car and locked the door. I ran up the front steps and was greeted by a scared Marley dog just on the other side of the threshold. Frozen in place, I looked around, tv still there, nothing disturbed. I saw one of two cats lying on the dog bed. There was still an entire house to be checked and with kids in the car I had to be fast. Heart pounding I looked for a weapon, anything I could club a guy over the head with. Shoes...no. Pillows, pictures frames...no and no. I had nothing. I could have run to the kitchen to get something deadly but in the interest of time, I took off empty handed. In a split second decision, I grabbed the guitar that resides on the first landing up the steps. I can now laugh, my weapon of choice to defend myself was a guitar. And the sad thing, as I was climbing the steps I was mentally preparing myself to use it. I even repositioned it in a way to get better leverage if I needed to start swinging. Thankfully, I didn't need to use it. The house was empty. No intruders. Nothing missing...except one cat.

In a total brainless move, Hatta didn't shut the front door before he left for work. He didn't shut or lock our front door. At all. I was already gone for the day, not to return until after picking Alice up at 11:45. In that time, Ellie cat had wandered out the door in search of adventure. For Hatta's sake, since I was ready to kill him with something more powerful than a guitar, maybe there is a God after all, because Ellie was found within a few hours of searching.

Almost Heart Broken

"Forrest doesn't want to play with me anymore Mama," Alice said with a sad tone.

"What do you mean? Did he tell you that?"

"Uh huh. He said he wouldn't play with me at the potluck dinner after bed tomorrow."

"He said he wasn't going to play with you at the potluck dinner on Saturday? Why? What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Well. Did you two have a fight? Were you not nice to him today? Did you guys get in trouble?" I asked trying to make sense of her story.

"No. He just said he wouldn't play with me at the potluck dinner. I'm so sad, Mama. I really like playing with Forrest."

You will be happy to know Forrest played dollhouse with Alice the very next day and even tried to cheer her up when she pricked her finger on a pipe cleaner during craft at the potluck dinner. They are merely four and friends are flighty and temperamental at this age. Even though she was upset and a touch heart broken at the time, no real harm was done.

The episode did, however, make the heartache I know is just ahead on the horizon appear a whole hell of a lot closer. I dread the moment when my girl puts herself out there to someone else only to have them dis her. And worse yet, the moment when a boy she gives her heart to turns around and stomps on it. I know the pain in store for Alice. Childhood can be hard, kids can be mean. Love at its worst is agony.

And what if my daughter's the one causing someone else unnecessary pain. I can remember a time, I was twelve, I was a mean girl. There was this girl my same age, a daughter of a family friend. We had very little in common, yet we often played together out of convenience. One day, with my friends by my side, in the cafeteria, I told this girl I no longer wanted to be her friend. And then, with a flip of our hair, we walked away. At the time I saw nothing wrong with my behavior, now I look back on it and feel awful. I'm sure this girl was very hurt by me. I'm sure I caused her pain. I was mean.

Every day I try to teach my daughter to be nice. I talk to her about bullying and what to do if she sees someone else bullying. I hope with every conversation we have she's one step closer to never being a mean girl. I pray she has the courage to stand up to her friends if they turn out to be mean girls. I want her to make the right choice because she doesn't want others to hurt. I want her to think of how her actions affect the feelings of other people. I want her to be a nice girl. That's the best I can hope for.

Strength in Numbers

In everyone's life there are usually a few moments when they feel they can not possibly make it, they can't go on, they just can't do it.

For me, the birth of my daughter comes to mind. By hour twenty I wanted to give up. I didn't think it was humanly possible for me to continue. I didn't know how I was going to endure any more pain, exert any more effort, push any longer. I wanted to quit. I was begging for help. I wanted the doctor to save me from my hell by insisting a caesarean was necessary. I didn't say it out loud, but I wanted to. I imagine many first time marathon runners experience a similar feeling at some point during the race. That point at which you don't think it's even possible to take one more step.

In every scenario it ultimately goes one way or another. Either you take one more step, push one more time or you don't. You either will you body, your mind to go on or you stop.

In my story, the birth of beautiful, stubborn baby Alice was made possible by a wonderful support system. Left to my own devises, I would have quit. I would have waved the white flag insisting someone else do the work I couldn't. Thankfully I had the most supportive and powerful coach in my OB doctor. I can still, four years later, hear her booming voice demanding "Hard as you can! Hard as you can!" She was not allowing me to quit. My doula was at my side just about every minute of the twenty one hours. She made me feel so brave and strong. She showed complete faith in my ability to birth my daughter. Hatta was there, scared and unsure, but in awe of my strength. Together they told me how wonderful I was doing and what an amazing woman I was. I didn't believe them, if I had been doing so wonderful wouldn't she be out by now? But it was still the encouragement I needed to keep pushing. The marathon runner, I imagine if he had to run the race entirely alone completion would be unlikely. Even those that aren't running with friends find strength in the comrades running around them. Together a lot more is possible.

You may remember a few posts ago when I stated I was swimming in heavy, heart crushing thoughts. I'm still there, barely staying afloat. I was informed last night that not everyone enjoys my analogies, and if this is true for you, I really am so sorry, but I'm afraid I'm sticking with the swimming one. For, I am anchored in this pool. All around me, as far as my eye can see is heartache. And I am stuck. I don't know where to go, or even which direction is shortest. I remain where I am, treading water. I know I must swim soon. But where to? I could always swim back to the shallow end, I'll still be stuck in the pool, but at least I know I won't drown. Or I could take a leap and swim toward the edge and hope I make it. Hope I have the strength to swim.

I wish someone else could save me. I want someone to dive in and pull me to safety. End the pain I feel. If only it worked that way. Even though I don't want to, I have to do this on my own as hard is it may be.

What I hope more than anything, is that I have a few people poolside cheering me on, shouting words of encouragement when I need it most. I'm afraid once I start swimming, I may find the journey too treacherous. I may find it easier to quit, allow my head to sink beneath the waterline or swim back to the shallows. I pray that if this happens I have a friend who recognizes the distress I'm in and throw's me a life ring, if even just to momentarily hang on to until I can swim again. I know I will not make it alone.

Not Torture, an Educated Parenting Decision

Monday night I wrote this post. And then I had this twitter conversation.

After that, I proceeded to spend hours lying in bed, not sleeping, second guessing my decision to take Alice to the butterfly conservatory. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was, in fact, torturing Alice.

Don't worry, even in my sleep deprived state I returned to my senses. I was making an educated parenting decision to follow through with my butterfly conservatory plan. I appreciated the opinions of well-meaning friends, but in this instance I had to go against them.

Let me be clear, when I tell my stories of life and parenting Alice, I do so with a humorous slant. The meat of the stories are true, but I find life easier to handle with a sense of humor. The humor, to some, may have been lost on my most recent post. Please know in everything I do, I absolultely have Alice's best interest at heart.

Case in point, the hours I spent lying awake contemplating why I was taking Alice into a situation I knew full well could have a bad outcome. It's very simple. Alice doesn't just fear butterflies, she fears all insects. This affects her daily life. It's debilitating. In case you hadn't noticed, bugs are everywhere. In the ballet room, in gymnastics, in her house, on the porch, in her playhouse, et cetera, et cetera. If I allowed Alice to succumb to the fear then I would be enabling her. Instead, Hatta and I (and the extended family) take the approach that insects are a part of our life and certainly nothing to be frightened about. And see, the thing is, Alice doesn't enjoy being afraid of bugs. It gets in her way of playing, she's wise enough to realize that. She wants to overcome her phobia. She wants to believe us when we tell her that the majority of the bugs are not looking to harm her. So, I provide Alice with opportunities to test out her insect threshold. In the garden, she's by my side, curious about the worms and the roly polies. Not interested in touching them, she keeps her distance to test the theory.

I saw the butterfly conservatory as merely another step towards Alice's freedom. It was a controlled environment with beautiful, fascinating insects that do not bite. My job was to support Alice and reassure her she would not be harmed. The only way for the experience to be a success was to go. To stay home would be giving into the fear. That was something I was not okay with. I do not think living your life around fear is healthy.

I asked Alice, the morning of the adventure, if she wanted to go.

"Yes. But I might be afraid if they want to land on my head," she replied.

"Well, that's okay. I won't let them land on you."

"Even if they don't, I still might be a little bit scared," she told me.

She wanted to face her fear. And, my friends, it paid off. We entered the greenhouse with her in my arms and we just stood there. I allowed her a few moments to take it all in before we moved. She was hesitant when I knelt down to observe a nearby butterfly and to place her on the ground. But, just like that, her curiosity took over. She didn't want to be unhappy. She trusted me to keep her safe and that allowed her the freedom to check her fear at the door...well, mostly. There was one instance when a butterfly attempted to land on her head and sent her into freak out mode. I quickly handled the situation and she didn't let it ruin her experience.

All in all, the butterfly effect was a success. She's still afraid of bugs...this morning she wouldn't sit still on our front steps for first day of preschool pictures because bugs were flying about. But, I believe each positive insect experience helps her to be one step closer to overcoming her phobia for good.

Man Eating Butterflies

Tomorrow, after preschool orientation, I'm taking Alice on a very special outing. "Where to?" you ask.

Wait for it........wait.......keep waiting.....

The Butterfly Conservatory! Ah hah haha!!

To the average fairy loving, little girl this would be a treat. As you've come to learn, my Alice is anything but average. She's petrified of butterflies. Terrified. Butterflies, spiders, houseflies, mosquitos, fruitflies, bees, ladybugs, wasps, moths, gnats, ants, cockroaches, beetles...the list is endless, my girl's scared of all of them. Bat-shit crazy scared. This is not an aversion, it's a full blown entomophobia!

I took her to the conservatory last year and it was beautiful. The butterflies were stunning and vibrant and everywhere. I had no idea she was going to freak out. I don't know why I didn't expect it, but I was caught off guard. I spent the entire time trying to convince her the butterflies were harmless, when clearly they were MAN EATING BUTTERFLIES! For the love of all things good why was I torturing her! I was persistent if nothing else. After she cried and sobbed, swatted and screamed for the first 30 minutes, the ENTIRE 30 FREAKING MINUTES, we took as break for lunch. Re-energized with a full tummy, I was convinced butterfly hell round 2 would go much smoother. I was wrong. It was every bit as horrendous. My only goal was to capture one moment where she was not visibly panic stricken. Camera shot after shot of Alice with a pained expression.

A well intentioned lady spoke up, "Are these really the pictures you want to have of your little darling? Is this how you really want to remember it?"

Right lady, as if I had some other choice. I was documenting the experience. If I had settled for only capturing smiles, I would have left with a blank memory card. Those fearful shots tell the best story ever!

So, tomorrow I embark on this butterfly adventure. I'm armed with no new tactics. No brilliant advice to help my baby overcome her fear. I am much wiser, though. I know what to expect. I'm not kidding myself into thinking she's going to love it. She's going to hate every freaking moment of it. In my head I will laugh. A lot. Carrying my dear girl, because walking in a butterfly paradise would be too treacherous, I will giggle inside at her rediculous unexplained fear. I can't say I will take pleasure in torturing my daughter, because that's not socially acceptable to say, but come on, it's butterflies! I'm not redecorating her room with clowns or forcing her to have pet snakes.

Preschool. Wednesday. Yay.

Preschool starts on Wednesday. I think maybe I've mentioned it before, but incase you didn't read it on twitter or sprinkled in and out of practically every post I've written since they accepted our application...I'll tell you again, Alice starts her first day of preschool next Wednesday. I'm excited. Alice is excited.

Up until last night that's as much thought as I've given it. "Thank the dear lord this little bitty, blonde hair ball of defiant energy is starting preschool soon! HALLELUJAH! There is a heaven after all and it opens at 8:45 five days a week! Sweet Jesus!"

Then last night it hit me, my baby is going to preschool...five days a week...sigh. Sob. Sob. Sob. For five enitre half days I will miss my baby. Well, maybe I won't miss her all five days. I'm sure that first morning when she's insisting she's not eating breakfast or getting dressed, screaming NO! at me, and throwing her toys...yeah, I imagine I won't miss her much that day. Or the morning I come downstairs to marker on the kitchen floor, it's likely I'll leave drop off skipping and whistling a tune. And the first morning I get to watch Regis and Kelly...wait, I hear since the last time I was able to watch the show Regis left, what is it now, just Live with Kelly? Anyway, I digress. The first morning I can sit peacefully with my coffee and drink it hot without having to microwave it three separate times, I think I'll still be rejoicing that day too. But mostly I'm going to miss my little sidekick.

Since the moment the OB stopped screaming "Hard as you can! Hard as you can! Hard as you can!" and placed the tiny 6lb 15oz baby on my chest we've been inseparable. We do everything together. We go everywhere together. We have a bond that only her and I share. She wants to be just like me, complete with lines on her forehead and the ability to roll her eyes effortlessly. And I want to be like her, to see life as one big playground where the goal is to have as much fun as you can. We've taken on every adventure that comes our way together. Every challenge, together. Together we provide each other with comfort. Together we are strong and can do anything.

And starting Wednesday, all that will be just a little bit different. See, my baby is growing up. She's ready and so am I. We need it. It's time for both of us to spread our wings just a touch. As excited as I am for this next chapter in our mother daughter relationship, I am equal parts sad and maybe even a fraction fearful for what's next. She is too. We will adjust to the newness and who knows, maybe our relationship will flourish with a few hour break from each other every day.

And to Alice, since I know one day you will read these words written about you, you have no idea how much I love you, how proud I am of you. You have become an amazing little girl. You're clever and resourceful, beautiful and sophisticated. You stop a room when you walk in. It's always been that way. When you were a baby, I couldn't go anywhere without complete strangers telling me how beautiful and porcelain doll like you were. The gerber baby people said. At Gymboree your early speech mesmerized the other parents. Your emotional sophistication has always astonished me. You understand complex thoughts and feelings that some adults struggle with. You make me so very proud to say I am your mama. Dear, sweet Alice...you are my sun and my moon and I thank the heavens every day you are in my life.

You Can Lead a Horse to Water

You know the old saying, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink the got damn pink medicine." So that's not exactly how it goes, close enough. That's been my life since Friday. Words do not do justice to what my sick life with sick Alice and sick Hatta has been. Let me share the ailments as they pertain to the individual, starting with Hatta: strep, bronchitis, and conjunctivitis, myself: strep, mild swimmer's ear (wtf?) severe inner ear infection, and sinus infection, and lastly, Alice: strep, stubborn, strong willed, defiant, bullheaded, relentless, persistent...shall I continue?

The list of ailments required medication: eye drops, ear drops, antibiotics, and perscription strength cough syrup. I shudder at the thought of how much, as a family, we've dropped at CVS in the past week. Alice was prescribed one simple antibiotic, Cephalexin, the pink medicine. In her previous years, my daughter worried me with her strong love for drugs, pink medicine included. She always wanted more. She'd fake an illness just to take more purple medicine. I thought surely we had a drug addict in the making. Suffice it to say, I'm not longer concerned.

I've struggled to get Alice to take her antibiotic, wait...I think that's a bit of an understatement. It's vastly greater than an understatement. Over the course of the weekend, I learned even though she is small I can no longer control what she does or does not do. To my novice, childless readers who are questioning my words right now, who think surely you can be the parent and make her...to you I say, if only it was that simple. Yes, I can force her to lie still. Yes, I can force her mouth open. Yes, I can force the medicine into her mouth. That's the point in which I no longer have control. What happens once the pink gooeyness hits her tongue is up to her. No matter how much I attempt to close her mouth, she still has the power to spit it out. All over my hands, all down her hair, all over the floor.

Plan B, hide that shit! First attempt, smoothie. Success. But, I can't make her drink two smoothies every day for ten days. Maybe I can reason with her. That was where I went wrong. Hatta warned me; I chose not to listen. I ruined the secret. I told her she had taken the pink stuff when she drank her smoothie. Alice was ecstatic! She was overcome with joy and wanted her morning medicine in a smoothie for sure. Seriously. I'm not being sarcastic. There was high-fiving all around. The next morning the warm and fuzzy feeling of the previous night was replaced with an air of gloominess as Alice began what would become a three day fast. No food. Little water. She was boycotting life. The mention of medicine would send her running to bed. From her mouth I heard, "No. I don't want to. I don't like it. I wanna go to bed." That's it, on repeat for three days. I offered her a chocolate milkshake. Wouldn't take a sip. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Reese's Pieces. Spoon didn't touch it. I found myself attempting to bribe her with the new Princess Tianna doll complete with carriage or a new Barbie is she just took the medicine. Nope. She was standing her ground, her coughy, achey, fevery, sick ground.

Plan C, finally the pediatrician has given the okay to switch antibiotic, since to date she has consumed merely one full dose and a couple partials. A new prescription has been called in, more money added to the shudder inducing total. The new drug is a capsule that when opened the tasteless powder can be sprinkled on anything. Thrilled to find out how tonight goes! Thrilled I tell ya!

I Hope You Dance

I witnessed something today that left me without words, silently staring with a million emotions swarming my brain.

It happened at the gym. Thirty minutes into my work out I found myself near the one-way glass windows of the daycare room. Like always, I paused to look inside. This morning they were engrossed in parachute time. I smiled, seeing the excitement on the faces of the children. I looked from kid to kid around the parachute circle, all the while the colorful chute went up and down. I didn't see Alice anywhere. I looked towards the corner she usually plays dolls in, she wasn't there either. Thinking she must have been underneath the parachute, I scanned all the little bodies again until finally I found her. She stood a foot behind the parachute, just watching. A smile on her face, not touching the chute, merely watching the fun taking place.

I was so torn with emotion. My heart broke for her. I knew the fun she would have if she allowed herself to participate. I knew if I was by her side as her security, she could have joined in. And at the same time I was proud of her for knowing her limits, knowing how much she could handle and still feel comfortable and safe. Proud that she was not holed up in a little corner playing alone. She had gotten as close to the action as she could handle, I'm sure. I watched her face as the other kids took turns, obviously having fun, running onto the middle of the parachute as the group continued to raise and lower it. I saw the longing in her smile, though unable to conjure enough bravery to take her turn. One time the parachute brushed her hand, I thought for sure she would take it as a sign and hold on. She didn't, she simply took two steps backwards to ensure it wouldn't happen again.

No mother hopes her child will be the one standing on the sidelines watching life, and the excitement it brings, pass her by. I quote a popular lyric by Lee Ann Womack*, "And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance. I hope you dance."

I hope that for Alice. I watched her through the window having a good time, but not entirely. The rest of the children laughing and squealing with delight at the activity, I couldn't help but wish Alice could experience it the same as them. All chidren are different, though. And this was too far outside of Alice's comfort. I can only hope that I teach her to be brave and step outside her comfort zone every once in a while to experience something exhilarating. It's always worth it.

* Let it be known, this will likely be the only time I quote country music. Growing up on a farm, I was surrounded by country, but proudly my iPod is practically void of it today.