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A few weeks back we started the steps towards Cade’s 7th set of bilateral prosthetics, fighter jet legs (what!? how the heck are we at 7! We were just doing  sweet train legs, big mom tears over here). I’m always a bit in awe of the process. We’ve been going to Next Step Bionics and Prosthetics in Newton, Ma since Cade was tiny, just months old having met Arthur while I was pregnant. Cade is at an age where he loooves it. Arthur so easily casts Cade’s legs since he actually sits still now and over the course of several appointments the little boys spend the evenings running around the studio. It’s easy, part of the rhythm of our lives. And yet I know so many don’t have the ease of access to phenomenal prosthetists or they are at the very beginning, perhaps just got some pretty awful news during their ultrasound and their hearts are aching at the thought of this being their story.

My friends, watching Cade thrive with his bilateral below-the-knee prosthetics has been just about one of the greatest joys of my life. Yes there have been highs and lows, as with any story. But there have been very few times yet over the course of Cade growing up where he has struggled with the awareness of being physically different. We don’t dwell on it as a family, we acknowledge when things are hard or more difficult for him, like riding his bike. We make sure we cheer loudly at the victories and comfort when things are hard. But never do we let it, this physical difference, exist as his identity. He’s far more valuable than that and it’s far too small of thing to define his beautiful little heart.

A couple weeks ago, ironically the day after he had his legs initially cast, his school was doing the first in a series of 4 auditorium talks on diversity and this one was on the topic of physical disability. Now I know Cade clearly falls into that category, I just was caught a bit off guard when the teachers sent home emails asking if we needed to make any accommodations for Cade in order for him to feel more comfortable. Gosh, it was as though I was reminded in that moment, “oh ya, I guess he is technically disabled…” It just feels so foreign to my ears, that word…disabled.  Maybe because we have never paid much attention to the word “disability” rather using “differently-abled” instead. Now maybe it’s because he doesn’t feel disabled. He’s just a rambunctious almost six year old more concerned about climbing to the highest branch in our yard.

But if I’m honest with myself, it’s probably because I just don’t like thinking about it. My mommaheart still blisters at the thought of Cade suffering ill treatment because of a physical difference than his peers and I frankly have the luxury of rarely thinking about it. His is not an obvious sort of difference unless it’s the heart of summer and he’s running around in shorts. So I intended on sneaking into the auditorium at school and just watching how it all transpired. I responded back to the emails with something like “I think Cade will be find, just don’t drag him on stage because he doesn’t like to be noticed.”

So imagine my shock when the presenter asked me to go get Cade from his seat because she wanted to make sure he still wanted to get up in front of everyone. What the. Seriously? If they were dragging my child up on stage to show off his prosthetics I was about to come unglued. And then she said, “Cade wants to talk about it.” What the. My Cade? We’re still talking about the same child here? Oh yes my friends. I sat there, trying not to break down while he enthusiastically talked to his classmates ON STAGE NO LESS about what it was like to get them cast and how he gets to pick out the fabric for the legs. It was wonderful and soul-filling. I wish I could have sent that video to my mom. When he  lifted up his pant leg to show off his legs, all the kids jumped out of their seats and I heard words like, “so cool” and “they’re like robot legs.” See the thing is, I guess when we give curious people the ability to see the differences between us, it becomes less stigmatized and becomes something to be celebrated. The intricate uniqueness amongst people that makes us all so beautiful.

Ultimately the presenter did a really wonderful job and ended by saying to the kids what she thought “disabled” kids would want them to know–that they are human, they have feelings, they don’t want to be left out, they don’t want to be stared at, they don’t want to feel simply like an object that is noticed and the assisted devices they use to help them thrive really are an extension of their bodies and not to be touched without being asked. How wonderful to get to talk about tricky topics and see kids, when given the ability to be curious, come away with a deeper, more heartfelt desire to be in relationship with each other and a fuller understand of how to be kind to everyone. Don’t you think it’s ironic that we had this sweet interaction because of communication. And every counselor out there is nodding enthusiastically at the moment. Oh the beauty that can come out of real, honest and open talking. Ultimately, we all want to be treated this way. We are humans, beautiful messy humans who have feelings, don’t want to be left out or stared at and don’t want to be seen as an object to either be conquered or endured. No we are unique and wonderful and different. Each and every one of us.

So as we bring home this 7th set of prosthetics I think back to all those days when I was afraid. All those days I was sad, wondering how he might be accepted, how me might be able to thrive. Accepted he is and thriving he is doing. So friends, never underestimate the power of curiosity and communications and perhaps, some super cool fighter jet fabric mom should win a medal for finding.