Progress not Perfection

Today a picture landed in my daycare app inbox.

Two, actually. One was of my almost-4-year-old daughter smiling behind a classmate who had some play dough or equally unappetizing goo covering his face. The other had her on the floor with a couple of classmates, sitting on a rug, around a box of blocks.

She was smiling, engaged. Included.

Not a big deal right?

For the mom of a daughter with cerebral palsy and mobility difficulties, let me tell you, it was.

I smiled and immediately shared them with my sister.

As parents we’re always looking to benchmark our child’s progress. Like a sprout, we want to clear the soil around them, give them access to enough sunlight and love, and see them grow baby, grow!

But when your child can’t be benchmarked across neurotypical socialization, the constant guessing game of “is that ok?” is really a question of “will she grow up to have a safe, complete and fulfilling life?” “Will she be alright when I’m gone?” The questions we won’t ask outloud (unless you’re me, who has no appropriate filter on the things she thinks or says).

Taking it into my own hands, I’ve researched some alternatives to traditional physical therapy to get her muscle mass up and her body awareness piqued through weight-lifting. Yea, yea the image of a four year-old lifting dumbbells is comical if not even reckless, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She also takes a dance class through school, and we have signed her up for soccer (albeit with kids a whole year younger).

All that said, the thing I want most for her right now has proven elusive - and that’s friendship.

There will be a time, coming soon I’m sure, that she doesn’t want Mama to play with her. And Mama telling her she’s “amazing, funny and beautiful” won’t mean as much to her as another kid her age asking if she wants to play tag.

But as with all things in life - progress not perfection.

This morning before daycare she came to our room and lay down next to us.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Of what?"

“Of the monsters, but they’re not here, they’re in my room.”

I invited her to lay next to me and she snuggled close. I felt the rapid breathe of an awake child on my nose for moments before she kissed me.

“Mama, I love you so much,” she said, taking my face in her hands.

Love you too baby girl, forever.