Her mother didn’t bat an eyelid: “You were born with something called cerebral palsy,” she replied.
I was three years old the first time I realised I was different from other kids. I remember the moment vividly. It was at daycare, one of my favourite places in the world, while my best friend and I were eating lunch. We were sitting at the table – me in pigtails and denim overalls, happily munching away – when Natasha finished her food and stood up from the table to go and play. Not wanting to be left behind, and with only a few bites of my own lunch left, I decided to follow her.
No, all of those realisations were to come in the days and weeks that followed, each their own little minefield when reality detonated. My face began to heat, and panic began to flutter in my chest, but I didn’t want to cry in front of the other kids. Even then, something told me that would be a bad move. So I pushed the feelings down and pretended everything was fine, busying myself with watching episodes ofBy this age, I was already a deep thinker.
To Mum’s credit, however, she didn’t bat an eyelid. “Well, you were born with something called cerebral palsy, which means your legs don’t work properly. The signals from your brain to your legs get a bit scrambled and they never end up making their way where they’re supposed to go.”That’s one of my favourite things about Mum: she’s always honest and has never shied away from answering my questions, even if that meant introducing me to “grown-up” ideas.
That night I got into position, ready to taste victory as I always had. The race began and I clattered along, but this time Dad was ahead of me. What? How? I pushed faster, harder – come on! He’s winning, he’s winning, no! Cue the meltdown. I was screaming and crying, face red, throat sore, and Dad just stood there in horror as he watched me go through the Five Stages of Grief, Sore Loser Edition.
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