But it's so hard to dance that way when it's cold and there's no music
Monday February 6th 2006
by Paul Armstrong
Its hard not to reminisce and see failure. When we smiled wide at those nuiances that made Abigail "Abigail". She was ours, yet totally hers. When we secretly called her "Franken-baby" as we swayed straight-legged around the house. Grinned at her monotone humming. Called her our model-child when she sat cross-legged on the floor.
We were right. This does make her "her".
What was once cute has turned acute. Sometimes crippling. Seldom precious. Today is the first appointment in what I can only hope are steps toward adapation (I have never considered this a cure). Upon filling out the 10 page questionnare with my novel-for-a-comment, the tears stream down my face at the thought of my little girl so scared, so hurt, so frustrated and angry. I have nothing left to do but let it go. I'm not looking for sympathy and I dearly hope I don't sound "whoe-is-me" or depressive. Nor do I wish be dull, boring and going on and on and on about our life and issues. Life is wonderful and glorious; well beyond what I would have expected. But neither is life perfect or idyllic - no one's life is. My only hope is that we all (whoever you are) realize that we have much to offer each other and to learn - guard down, hearts ready. We love you all and cannot thank you enough for being supportive and thoughtful.
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