C. is five now.
I watch this little skinny-mini who adores all things pink and princess and remember when I wondered if she'd ever be able to see, let alone distinguish colors.
I listen to her thunder across the floor with utterly graceless dance steps and recall the developmental pediatricians' cautioning words, "She may never walk..."
I hear her belt out, "Allelujah... allelujah... thanks to the frizzen Lord!" and I step back in time to the weeks upon weeks that I never heard her voice or cry.
My little girl. Truly, little. She still only falls in the 10th percentile for height. Weighing in just under 34 pounds fully-dressed, she's in the 3rd percentile for girls her age. Delicate-boned with a tiny little face, she comes across as even more fragile than she is. The best way I can describe her is that she's the kind of girl that people instinctively want to look out for, to take care of...
My little sprite.
Low muscle tone. Some unclear speech patterns. Severe vision impairment.
These words are all scrawled across the paperwork I will need for when she enters kindergarten next year.
I imagine they would cause some parents great distress.
They don't even faze me...
Dance on, my miraculous princess, and sing your shouts of joy.