On Tuesday night, the kids’ school had a Christmas event called “Polar Express Night.” Some of the teachers read The Polar Express to groups of kids and parents, they served cocoa and cookies, and they had a holiday gift shop and toy drive. For all of us parents, the highlight of the night was when the 5th grade chorus performed a medley of Christmas songs.
My girl Zoe was part of that chorus. She was in the front row of the chorus, belting out her songs with an enthusiasm that warmed my heart. After I stopped crying, I reflected on Zoe’s choral debut and why I was reduced to a weepy mess in the middle of the auditorium.
I thought about how Zoe almost didn’t survive her birth, and what a tremendous feeling of loss not having her would have left in my heart.
I thought about the time a nasty neonatology resident told me not to hold out much hope for my child having much of a life.
I thought about how long we spent in therapists’ offices, hoping for the day when Zoe would be able to finally speak.
I thought about how my Zoe‘s spirit inspires me every day, and how thankful I am for how far she has come from those scary first days.
And then I cried some more.