Sure enough, I open the door to Fiona sitting behind it, and she gives me a guilty smile and starts to book it away from me. (Her "booking" it is her frantically doing her sit-crawl-scoot maneuver). For the last week, every time she crawls into a room, she closes the door behind her. Girl likes her privacy.
Her new found independence with being able to move has opened so many doors for her. ( Besides the ones that she closes behind her :). Not all therapy is miserable for her. In fact, she quite enjoyed her first Popsicle, therapist-recommended to help her learn to drink from a straw.
Popsicles in January outside... just sayin ;)
Someone is severely testing my patience and I am miserably failing. Its really hard to "do it all" when you have two three year olds who non-stop ask questions. And I am good at questions, I can always give an answer. But three year olds don't listen. So they ask the same question, repeatedly, in a row, barely leaving me time to answer, till my brain is fried and... well, lets just say I have needed a lot of mommy time outs lately. Thankfully, my little sister rocks and got me a gift card for a couple massages that I gladly put to use tonight. Two hours out of the house- one spent reading, one spent in massage heaven, and best of all, my brain got to rest from the high pitched noise that is my boys' voices. Sorry Breiden and Gavin, I love your sweet little voices. Its just an overload when its both of you at the same time all...day... long.
The internet is a dangerous place for me. Its an endless source of reading material and a vast space of unlimited information. The two combined leave me literally getting lost in a different world, jumping from one article to the next, from comments to new links. I hunger for information. I could give two licks about what the Karda-whocares sisters are doing, or who got kicked off American Idol, but the child suffering across the world, being tossed aside as worthless? I am dragged into those stories. I hunger to help them, and am always left feeling unfulfilled from just reading and not being able to actually do anything. Lately, I have been bombarded with different stories of different situations and have been only been able to be half present during the day as my mind is half thinking about these people. These strangers.
Life has become a precious thing to me since becoming a mom. And I lack any understanding why the majority of the human race throws it away. Why we choose our own comfort over someone who is suffering. Why we don't stick up for the abused. Why there is such little value put on life. Fiona has a lot to do with this. I see her face in almost every story I read. I see how her life could be so different if she was in someone elses story, not mine. For every parent holding on to their dying child, I see Fiona with different doctors and a different era where her heart could not be fixed. For every child being denied basic needs because of a label, I hear them denying Fiona love, nutrition, shelter. For everyone who treats someone mentally or physically handicapped as worthless, I see them treating Fiona that way. Call me overly-sensitive. Call me an exaggerator. I'll call that you don't know true love.
I cannot cure diseases. I can not feed all the hungry (honestly, we struggle to feed out own family). I cannot adopt a baby... yet. But I can be a voice. I can be a prayer. I am one more person aware of that persons struggles, situation, story- and therefore one more person who cares. 1 is a powerful number when you get a bunch of them together.
Two year old Amelia needs a lot of 1's. She needs a lot of voices to show the medical team at The Childrens Hospital of Philadalphia the worth of every child. Go to her petition- sign it- give her a fighting chance to live longer then a year with a new kydney that CHOP is denying her because she is mentally retarded. God, how I hate that word. The medical team has seem to forgotten that she is not a label, or a dignosis, or a low IQ. She is a little girl who deserves every bit of right to fight for survival.