Brian walked me through the front door of the church last weekend instead of sneaking through the side door to find Marla, Erik's aide. Brian carried Erik in his arms past the long rope connected to the happily clanging bell above our heads. Our pastor saw us coming, and his eyes met mine for an almost uncomfortable amount of time. I could tell he was going to say something to me but wasn't finding the words in time. He took my hand and thanked me for my letter, telling me that he was in need of a little inspiration. He admitted to me that it was nice to have something to occasionally remind him why he is doing the job that he does. I really didn't know what to say in return except thanks. I then smiled and placed the palm of my hand on the scratchy, brown tweed of his suit jacket as I passed by. Later on in the service, he showed this video to the congregation. It's amazing to me what is possible and frightening how easy it is to put limits on ourselves and our children. It's even easier to just give up and quit dreaming.
Erik danced into hippotherapy like Mikhail Baryshnikov this week. He was up on his toes all the way from the Jeep to waiting area in the barn. His therapist studied him with her head cocked quizzically and then asked me if he was going through a growth spurt. That doesn't begin to describe how he seems to have shot up lately. I attempted to measure him at home the other day, but the process frightened him to death. He loves to snack, and he seems to be eating constantly these days. I believe that his Achilles tendons just aren't keeping up with the length of his legs lately. This used to scare me, but I have noticed it happens from time to time. All we can do is keep him stretched out and hope for an outcome that doesn't require surgery. Sometimes when he wakes up from his nap I work on his legs before he is conscious enough to escape. I have made a promise to myself that I will cram his orthotics on his legs more diligently this week in order to keep his feet flat.
His home blood pressure cuff arrived this week, but I have not been brave enough to attempt to take a reading without a bag of chocolate candy nearby to bribe him. His blood work to check his hormones and kidney function has been sent, and I am waiting for the results. He is savvy enough about the medical field to understand what happens at the laboratory. I thought he was clueless as he calmly played with the toys in the waiting room, but when they called his name, he burst into tears and pleaded, "I don't want to!" I prepared to hold him down in the chair in the back room and assured the phlebotomists he doesn't hold a grudge. At least not against them.
Right now I am sitting at my desk at this ungodly hour with an amused smile playing over my face. Using the Internet, I just successfully identified the word Erik said when I asked if he wanted a cracker and placed a whole wheat Ritz in his hand yesterday.
After he studied it, he seemed slightly annoyed and hissed, "Galleta."
I see that's Spanish for hardtack. Or cracker.