#ThisIsMyChild as I sit I a hotel room 300 miles away pretending to be TV Sara, thumbing clumsily on my phone (phew, circa 30th August, finally done a tidy and edit)
Typical to a casual onlooker but as rare as an alpine flower under a microscope
Unrecognisably lucky and successful from the baby we had diagnosed
To his Daddy joyfully a boy with no need for a label and with all the promise of a typical life ahead
To his big brother an annoyance and yet not entirely like everyone else's sibling
To his extended family a joy and a relief from the worry of the earlier years
And to his Mummy all that he was, is, could be, might be in all its joy and pain and
fear and exhaustion and protection and need to hide and shout, to fight, to be patient, to dare to dream and to challenge all who stand in the way
This is my boy but this is my voice and I am sorry if it shines a light that you don't want
I will stop talking about you in a heartbeat if it hurts, but I can't stop talking about
how blessed, challenged, heart filled and heart broken I sometimes am as your mummy.
When a doctor can't see or hear me when I tell them what you need
When you squeeze and kiss the energy back into me
When you experiment with tears and emotions that I feared might not be in there
When you read and speak and run and jump in a way that we were cautioned you might not
You are my youngest boy
You are ours to protect
Forgive me if I do that too loudly sometimes
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