A year ago

(in response to The Hospital, a poem by Patrick Kavanagh)

It feels like only a year ago I was choosing which lipstick to wear and which skirt to best show off my legs in.

I listened to the awful Shania Twain song 'man I feel like a woman.' this morning

and I'm ashamed to say that not only did I sing but I knew the lyrics.

'best thing about being a woman'

'doing a dance.'

It got me questioning, were women like Shania and I was so undervalued and repressed that the only outlet was to enjoy to the affectation of 'being a woman' and the only release, 'doing a dance.'

This is far from how I feel now, the person I've always been has emerged

although it took the cutting off of limbs and walking around bloody to achieve it.

The things that are real are present even if not spoken of or acknowledged.

I have proof of this in my daughter, she is so far from that stereotype,

the proof is in her stealth at football, the ball seems to flow with her body like it's an extension of her will.

She plays with the boys despite the difficulty it creates from girls and boys

and we joke about how bad women's football is, unbelievably bad.

Is this disability playing football a symptom of the separation of ones self from the surrounding world, are tight skirts and lipstick a symbol of being set aside, not truly involved.

A year ago you were still carrying the metal frame around your leg. It feels like 5, 10 years ago. Not months.

You have written me many notes and cards thanking me for being there for you during your operation, but it is me who should have written to you.

I have told you about my feelings, I know, but there are things that can only be told in retrospect, because speaking while we are going through something life-changing often means letting our guard down, letting our fears out. And I couldn't be scared, I couldn't be worried. I had to be strong, follow my parenting philosophy: if we panic, our children will panic with us. If we show them we are scared, they will be terrified.

So I woke up many times during the night with you, at the sound of your sobbing, and made you laugh instead. I hope you'll never have to think about funny things to do and say in the middle of the night while your own child is in agony. It is an absurd experience. But we did it. You did it. You, the little girl who wouldn't speak to anyone, too shy to hear her own voice. That little girl has turned into and adventurer, a confident performer who thinks nothing of what others might see as a disability. You are perfect. Beautiful. Unstoppable. You teach me every day to appreciate life as it comes, the little pleasures in life, the ability to discover life through small shifts in perspective. A box becomes a house; half a chewed tennis ball becomes a plant pot, a ladder a new throne, odd shoes containers for pencils and crayons.

It is I who should be writing those little notes to thank you. I am in awe of the person you are becoming and I look forward to the next 12 years and beyond.

I used to think that being a parent was something other people did, undamaged people, people who know exactly who they are, where they are going, where to leave their heavy baggage. But look at this... Turns out I'm not half bad.