| finding a voice

day twenty-four/ FIVE

(for August 17th)
There is so much to say with this one word. Five. It is laden with all that I don't want to say. Here we are. It arrived a little too soon for my liking. I can't believe you are five and I don't want to believe you are five.

I love that you are trying to communicate. I love that you can walk. I love that you attack us and your brothers and express your frustration. I love that you have favorite things including "Finding Nemo". I love that Daisy always curls up next to you when you sleep. I love that Parker and Thomas always take you by the hand, guide you and ask you questions. I love that you always try to say "I love you", "sorry", "thank you" and "bye".

I can't say that I am not sad because I am. I hate that in five years we have not found out why this is happening to you. I hate that I am left to ponder the infinite reasons how things went wrong. I hate that despite your beauty and different brilliance, I am still left everyday to try to explain why to others and how tired this leaves me. I hate that my sadness is more consuming than I would like. I hate that five is defined as the end of "the critical years of brain development". I hate that I now know there will never be a day that can be defined by anyone else as "normal" and that for this reason, our circle of caregivers is narrowing.

All of these are horrible things to say, but there is not one thing that I don't adore about you. You are not any of these things in the above list. Whenever I'm with you, and our family, alone, I forget all of these "hardships". I don't question why you can't or how you can't or who you are. You are, Henry, above all my baby, so for that reason I wouldn't take back any of it even if I would give anything to make things so much easier for you.