I dreamt the other night that Charlotte's oxygen tubing was kind of a leash that kept her tethered to earth.
When Charlotte meets someone new, they see her sitting in her stroller and ask "Can she walk?" No.
"Does she crawl?"
Sometimes they talk to her, and wait a moment, awkwardly wondering if she will talk back. She usually smiles and shakes her head. I shake mine too.
She doesn't talk yet. Maybe someday.
Sometimes I get anxious and I so desperately want them to understand how wonderful she is, how much she can do, how much she understands. I show them how she can sit on her own and I hand her things to play with. I try and get her to laugh. I ruffle her thick hair and kiss her forehead. She is wonderful. Wonderful. Please see it!
Some people look away when they see us. They may smile at Ella in her car seat, smile at her hair and her big toothless baby grin. Then they look at Charlotte, and look away.
They see a child with funny features and oxygen and hearing aides. They see a child who won't do much, won't be much. Probably won't be here long. They feel sorry for me and look away.
But some don't look away.
Some see big beautiful eyes and and unique feminine features--tiny nose, pink lips, porcelain skin. Some see a child with potential who needs help unlocking it, hearing aides, special school... who needs oxygen tubing to keep her tethered to earth. They see purpose, a child of God.
I am so grateful for these people.
No matter what they see, I hope they all realize that they are seeing a child who is loved.
Charlotte is so, so loved. Whether or not they ever know how special she is, how unique and amazing, they should know first that she is loved.