My daughter has never jumped.
She has journeyed to places most two-year olds have never had the misfortune to go, she has experienced surgery, blood transfusions, and week-long stays in hospital cots but she has never had the giggly feeling of her feet leaving the ground and returning safely.
She doesn’t even know what jumping is…
You call to her “Jump” and she crouches down, her lips purse in concentration and then she shoots upwards her arms stretched like arrows and her legs move up and she pivots on to her toes as her knees snap into position.
“I jump” she cries happily, satisfied with her own version of the action.
My heart cracks a little.
Like walking, jumping is something I never truly appreciated until I had BB.
We go to parks, play areas, music groups and she suddenly spots children rolling and tumbling along, their legs leaping away from the floor she seems chained to. Then she sees the difference and deflates a little, she solemnly walks over to me rubbing her thigh with a serious expression set on her beautiful small face.
“Leg hurts” she says and she sits down beside me, watching not playing.
My heart cracks a little more.
Tonight we sat on the sofa, reading Monkey and Me for the millionth time, she tired of it before I did and wandered off round the room muttering jump under her breath and swinging her arms towards the ceiling.
I sat back and watched my littlest, a smile tingling at my lips.
She limped over to me and grasped my hands,
“I jump mummy”
and then she bent to the floor, hands tight in mine and she shot up like an arrow and I felt it, I felt it in my arms, the moment her feet abruptly left the wooden floor and she soared like a bird no longer tied to the ground. I looked into her eyes and saw delight written there when she realised the fun she held in something that typically only causes her pain.
“I jump mummy” she said proudly.
Then we jumped together.