So, Lily has had a walker since she began junior kindergarten last year. We’ve had some success with it, mostly because the staff at her school are incredible and just keep pushing her. She would take a few steps but for the most part would just use both feet at the same time to push herself forward. She could only go forward as she had no real concept of steering or changing directions to actually get to somewhere in particular. She was much happier just scooting around on her bum and getting places faster.
What a difference a single piece of equipment can make. This year, the parents of one of the older students brought in some of his old walkers as he can walk independently now. They tried Lily on one of them and it was like finding her ruby slippers. Suddenly this girl is a walking machine. Not only is she taking actual steps and holding on to the handle bar (both of which are HUGE steps that I can’t even talk about without crying), but she’s figured out how to turn around, move away from walls if her depth perception throws her off a bit, and yesterday I watched her walk down the school hallway and make the turn in through the classroom doors. Now, it wasn’t her classroom, but that just makes me like the story a little more.
The changes in her are just coming so quickly this year that it’s like we’re looking at a totally different child. She will pull herself up into your face to force you to make eye-contact with her, she’s figured out how to yell and is thisclose to saying, “Hi”, and is just has a sudden interest in what’s actually going on around her instead of living inside her little bubble as she’s done for so long. She laughs and smiles at everyone and while she’ll throw herself at just about anyone, she’s very particular about who gets a high-five. Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I can see the future. For a little while I was stuck, and while I was so immensely proud of everything she has accomplished, a part of me was aching for more. As parents our job is to keep our eyes on the future and know that our children, regardless of ability, can and will do anything they set their mind to. The problem had been that my worried voice was overtaking my mamma voice and I started wondering if this would be it. I started allowing myself to picture a life where Lily didn’t walk and what that would mean for us, for our family, for our house, for our future. And let me just say here that if she didn’t walk or if she still doesn’t walk without assistance, that it is okay and I’m still amazed at everything she does, but for just a tiny amount of time I was upset. I let my worried voice drown out the voice that reminds me that everything is done on Lily time and I needed this victory, this incredible, amazing, tears rolling down face, victory to help bring my mamma voice back. But with that comes guilt. Guilt that I let the worried voice take over. Guilt that the small victories weren’t enough to bring the mamma voice back. I celebrated them all, but that whisper was there and I should have drowned it out with my own hope – because that’s what we’re supposed to do for our children; we’re supposed to stay hopeful. I should have let the hope ring louder, stronger and taken back the part of my brain that was stuck. I should have remembered that hope wins every time; at least it does with Lily time.
