Tonight, I sat on the sideline of soccer practice and watched as my eight-year-old son and my 34-year-old Tim ran around with another dad and a bunch of other soccer kids learning and playing. I had no reason to be there. It wasn’t a game. Barely a practice as they raced the weather to learn about offsides and ball control. But it was fun, and for a while I watched my Isaac forget everything that has been bothering him these last few weeks.
And he just played soccer.
Between the latest issue of “Cooks Illustrated” and watching two of my boys play soccer, a young girl about Isaiah’s age sat down next to Esther-Faith. They talked about how they were both wearing yellow. I cautiously watched out of the corner of my eye. Until she caught me. This reserved, quiet girl asked, “Are you Isaiah’s mom?” Um. Yeah. Who wants to know? I wanted to say as I wondered how this adorable preteen knew my son. “Yeah,” I said. “Are you in his class?” She said she was. Then she QUICKLY informed me that she wasn’t his girlfriend. Just a girl who is his friend. She pointed to another field and informed me that his girlfriend played on that team. My heart lurched into my throat as I realized she was pointing to the field where Isaiah’s team was practicing.
Where there was a girl who is more than a friend.
She watched me for a while. I watched her. Then I asked if she wanted to share secrets about my Isaiah. She dished. I listened. It appears that my son has been passing notes to the girlfriend that the teacher confiscates and reads aloud to the class. Nice notes. Notes that make all of the girls swoon. Then this girl who is not my son’s girlfriend but just a friend that happens to be a girl tells me that Isaiah wants to have 15 kids. Some adopted. Some birth. I know I should have been upset or nervous or something. Instead, my mind flew to what it might look like to have fifteen grandkids all in matching and coordinated outfits from The Children’s Place.
Tim did not share my excitement of shopping for fifteen adorable matching outfits.
On the way home from the soccer fields, I inquired of the twelve year old about his plans for offspring. And I shared my plan for matching outfits. He rolled his eyes and said there would only be 15 if the girlfriend agreed to it. His dad reminded him that the girlfriend better be more than a girlfriend when the grandchildren start to arrive. Which signaled more eye rolling. And a promise from the twelve year old that they planned to live with us anyway.
The husband threw up a little bit in his mouth.
Once we made it home, we started the round of showers required after soccer practice. I started making popcorn while Isaiah rested in the playroom with his sister. My Tim started emptying the dishwasher. There was giggling and laughing coming from the playroom. Then Isaiah yelled my name. Loud. And a lot. I thought something was the matter.
There is a panicked feeling that happens when your kid yells your name that way.
I started for the playroom and noticed Isaiah waving his arms for me to just stop and watch. Then I did. Esther-Faith was in the middle of the playroom. Her feet were flat on the floor and her hands were in front of her. She appeared to be doing a squat. With her pretty, new, yellow sundress draped around her legs. Then, she put her hands out to her sides for balance and stood up. All the way. She has never stood up independently. Ever.
Until tonight.
Tonight, she stood up. For two seconds she supported all of her own weight on her legs without the aid of braces or a walker or a wheelchair or holding onto something else. She didn’t hold onto anything. Then she collapsed to the floor. And she laughed as she positioned her feet to try again.
It may go without saying, but I cried. I stood frozen in the kitchen with my hands over my mouth as the tears streamed down my face. For a lot longer than two seconds. Tim, abandoning the dishwasher, quietly scooted to the playroom and he held her hands to help her try again. She looked up at her daddy’s face and said, “Dance with me, Daddy!” He looked at me. I looked at him. I looked at Isaiah. Isaiah looked at Tim. We were all thinking and feeling the same thing.
She stood up without her braces.
She stood up without her walker.
She stood up without holding onto anything.
She stood up.
She stood up!
That may not mean much to you, but to us, it is a big, big deal. We’re excited.
Cause you know, we go through stuff over here at the HennHouse. Tough stuff. Things hurt sometimes. Not just our bodies. Things hurt our souls. The last six weeks Isaac has been angry and he doesn’t even know why. Isaiah has been struggling as the seasons change with some very painful memories. We struggle through painful emotional and behavioral situations. We wonder about identity. We have painful enema experiences and go through ten-day bladder washes.
But you know what? We stand. Together.
On the soccer field. On our “disabled” legs. On our dreams.
But we stand.
We stand!
Read more about the head rooster, mama Henn, and the three little chicks over at the HennHouse.