You like Thomas the Train, who you call "Thomas a choo choo twain!" And Veggie Tales (or "Tijjie Tales!") is a pretty close favorite. Although all bets are off when it comes to Scooby Doo (better known as "Dooby Cobby!").
You're silly and sweet. You're rough and tough. You're a bundle of contrasts and everything I never thought I'd have.
Your name is Taryn Michael. In eleven days you will be two years old.
So much has happened in your life in the twelve months since your last birthday.
You learned to walk. You learned to talk. You learned to drink from a big boy cup, to eat with a spoon, to get your point across, to make choices. You got glasses. You broke one pair and lost the other. You're learning to be you.
You moved from Minnesota to Florida, from one Florida town to another. You went from having your own room to sharing one. You went from being unable to participate in much of anything, to the instigator.
I called the day you learned to walk an ordinary, every day miracle, because thousands, millions of other families all over the world were watching children right around your age do the same thing for the first time, and yet it was amazing given what we'd gone through with your brother.
As I sit here tonight, I find that I was, somewhat, wrong.
That day was not an ordinary, every day miracle.
YOU are an ordinary, every day miracle.
You are amazing. I don't recall teaching you to use a spoon, yet you do. I don't recall teaching you to get dressed on your own, yet you can. I don't think I ever showed you where the garbage was, yet you're capable of throwing away your own garbage. I didn't have to take you to therapy to get you to walk and talk, yet you do both, picked it up all on your own. Just like millions of other children all over the world.
And it is amazing. It's a miracle, the miracle of childhood unfolding as it "should," as it is "expected," as is "typical."
You were born to a mother who can't always give you the experience the baby of the family usually gets, who can't always make you the top priority because 9 times out of 10 your brother needs to be. You were born with a big brother who will forever need more than you will. You were born to parents who had never experienced typical.
And I'm telling you, you are a miracle. For all the fuss made over your brother, you are AMAZING. You are...miraculous. Incredible. Astonishing.
The story of your life started on a September morning when I threw up cooking eggs. You are the author of where the rest of your story goes. YOU. Not me. Not a regiment of doctors, therapists, social workers, and home health aides who will guide, mold, shape, and ultimately help decide your brother's future.
YOU.
The story of you is about to be two years old, and we're getting to the part where you start to play a more prominent role in what happens to you.
I can't wait to see what the next chapter brings.
You're silly and sweet. You're rough and tough. You're a bundle of contrasts and everything I never thought I'd have.
Your name is Taryn Michael. In eleven days you will be two years old.
So much has happened in your life in the twelve months since your last birthday.
You learned to walk. You learned to talk. You learned to drink from a big boy cup, to eat with a spoon, to get your point across, to make choices. You got glasses. You broke one pair and lost the other. You're learning to be you.
You moved from Minnesota to Florida, from one Florida town to another. You went from having your own room to sharing one. You went from being unable to participate in much of anything, to the instigator.
I called the day you learned to walk an ordinary, every day miracle, because thousands, millions of other families all over the world were watching children right around your age do the same thing for the first time, and yet it was amazing given what we'd gone through with your brother.
As I sit here tonight, I find that I was, somewhat, wrong.
That day was not an ordinary, every day miracle.
YOU are an ordinary, every day miracle.
You are amazing. I don't recall teaching you to use a spoon, yet you do. I don't recall teaching you to get dressed on your own, yet you can. I don't think I ever showed you where the garbage was, yet you're capable of throwing away your own garbage. I didn't have to take you to therapy to get you to walk and talk, yet you do both, picked it up all on your own. Just like millions of other children all over the world.
And it is amazing. It's a miracle, the miracle of childhood unfolding as it "should," as it is "expected," as is "typical."
You were born to a mother who can't always give you the experience the baby of the family usually gets, who can't always make you the top priority because 9 times out of 10 your brother needs to be. You were born with a big brother who will forever need more than you will. You were born to parents who had never experienced typical.
And I'm telling you, you are a miracle. For all the fuss made over your brother, you are AMAZING. You are...miraculous. Incredible. Astonishing.
The story of your life started on a September morning when I threw up cooking eggs. You are the author of where the rest of your story goes. YOU. Not me. Not a regiment of doctors, therapists, social workers, and home health aides who will guide, mold, shape, and ultimately help decide your brother's future.
YOU.
The story of you is about to be two years old, and we're getting to the part where you start to play a more prominent role in what happens to you.
I can't wait to see what the next chapter brings.
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