Parenting
Updated: October 28, 2019
Originally Published: November 5, 2014
“I’m sad because my legs don’t work as well. I can’t run fast like Liam. My legs just don’t work.”
It’s the heavy silence that follows the revelation, filled only with the rapid thumping of my heart, drowning out everything else as the realization settles in. The air slowly escapes my lungs—the breath I’ve been holding since those words spilled from his innocent lips.
Someone should offer reassurance. Someone should tell him he is perfect, that while life may be challenging, we will navigate it together.
Isn’t anyone going to say anything? I am on the verge of breaking down, fighting against the sob that threatens to escape since his words echoed in the car.
But it’s just me and him. And Liam. I’m expected to comfort him, to provide… what? That it will all be alright? That it’s unfair? That I’m sorry?
I genuinely thought we had more time.
At just four years old, my sweet boy—who recently grasped that he is indeed a boy, who can remember my name but still struggles with his father’s, who believes the part he uses to poop is called his “bum” and the part for peeing is also called his “bum”—I thought we had more time.
More time for him to navigate the world without the burden of Cerebral Palsy. More time before he became aware of the harsh realities that fate, genetics, and my inconsistent prenatal vitamins have dealt him.
We often comforted ourselves with the notion that he was blissfully unaware of his challenges. At least he didn’t know he was different—that while other children breeze through their days, he must endure eight hours of therapy each week. Thank goodness he didn’t realize it, we told one another.
But he knows now.
This became painfully evident during our drive to school this morning when he mentioned that Liam doesn’t look well. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, half expecting him to appear ill, but he looked fine. I assumed he was upset about being told he couldn’t wear his favorite watch.
I seized the moment to foster communication and encouraged Liam to ask him what was bothering him.
“Owen, what’s the matter?” he queried kindly.
“I’m sad,” Owen replied.
“Why are you sad?” Liam pressed.
“I’m sad because my legs don’t work very well. I can’t run fast like you,” he answered.
I think I gasped. It was a quiet reaction, but it happened.
Then, Liam stepped in to save the moment. This five-year-old, who understands more than any child should, offered one of the most uplifting pep talks I’ve ever witnessed.
“No, Owen, you’re going to be really fast one day! You can wear my sneakers when you grow. They light up, and that makes you fast! You should ask Dad for help with your running. He’s great at that. I bet you’ll even beat me one day!”
Her declaration that one day he would surpass her in speed was an incredible act of kindness. For her, who grapples with her own challenges—arthritis and sensory issues—her speed is her pride.
Yet, she offered it to him without hesitation or doubt.
I thought she had more time before she needed to stand up for him, to offer encouragement, to explain his challenges to others. She’s only five and not even in Kindergarten, yet she instinctively knew he needed her support.
After dropping him off at school, I informed his therapist that he was feeling down. He kissed me goodbye, his bright blue-green eyes lacking their usual sparkle. Something had clicked within him, and he felt the weight of reality.
It’s that moment when you know something you can’t un-know. A look in your child’s eyes that becomes permanently etched in your memory.
It’s unbearable. I feel an ache for him and his little heart that now bears this knowledge.
Later, I dropped Liam off at her school, turning to her at a red light to express how proud I was of her. She had shown remarkable generosity, grace, and love towards her brother.
I called my partner, telling him what had transpired, and finally allowed myself to cry. I pondered what we would say to our son, how to explain these difficult truths to him. I’ve been crying on and off all morning, reflecting on that conversation and the inevitable discussions to come.
I still have no idea what to tell him. There are issues that a hug cannot remedy. I want to tell him I’m sorry for what he faces, that it isn’t fair, that I wish it were me instead. Yet, I also want him to know that I wouldn’t change a thing about him—he is everything I could ever want in a son, and for four long years, he has made me proud.
But now, he knows.
I thought we had more time.
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In summary, the journey of parenting often brings unforeseen challenges. As parents, we grapple with our children’s awareness of their differences and the harsh realities of life. We strive to instill hope and resilience in them, while also managing our own emotions and responses.
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