|The time she baked me a cake.|
She, like Avery, didn’t have any dysmorphic features. At first glance, she appeared pretty typical. It was when she spoke that the disparity between her chronological and developmental age was apparent. She was extremely affectionate. “Ooooooh, she’s soooooo cute.” she repeated over and over every time she met Avery. She was gentle and sweet and very friendly.
I was curious about her diagnosis, but I never asked. I watched her carefully and hopefully. “She was such a happy kid,” I told my friend.
But more significantly, I observed her parents. “Every week I watched how they interacted with their daughter and their older child. They were always so genuinely happy and relaxed, having fun, and full of love.”
She listened as I told her about this family who unknowingly blazed a trail for me. And then she said, “But that’s EXACTLY what I see when I look at you and your family.”
She could see how much those words meant to me in that moment, but I wonder if she knows that on bad days—the days when I worry too much or look too far ahead—that I replay those words in my head and they make me feel more sure of myself as Avery’s mom.