The last few weeks have flown by and suddenly your operation is less than a breath away. The doctors have told me you should be in theatre for four to five hours but have warned it will feel like eternity, I remember last time, I know it will taste like forever.
You won’t remember being in a spica cast, you won’t remember three months of your life being tied down. This helps slightly but still my heart breaks a little when I think of you waking up post op finding your legs restricted and your mobility gone.
You have really just learnt to walk, and you spend your days wobbling from room to room. Your current love is keys, not those rubbish plastic ones which couldn’t open a tent, but ones that really open doors and cars. It is driving your daddy wild because you take them and hide them and since you can’t speak you can never bloody tell us where they are.
I’m sorry my lovely, somewhere along the way I grew you a little bit wrong. I’m sorry that you have to pay the price. If I could take your place I would do it in a heartbeat.
I know you will shame me, I will be a wreck huddled in the corner, red faced and snotty. You will emerge triumphant, ready to take on the world in your cast, ready to learn how to live (for a short time) without legs.
When you were born I always knew you were precious; my last child, created by love and grown by adoration.
You walked without a hip joint, you speak without words, you are a beautiful inspiration and my little girl.