|One of four felt strawberries.|
Fourteen years of mothering has taught me not to let go of those little somethings. Fourteen years of parenting has taught me that doctors, family members, and professionals don't and can't hear from the Lord in the same way that I do regarding my children.
So really, it wasn't a shock when the initial testing we had done regarding some slightly funky stuff with Seven came back a little cloudy. And it wasn't too strange to me when the next round of tests brought some odd news. See, I've felt in my gut since forever, that somehow this amazingly strong, sweet, bright little girl had some hint of fragility. I couldn't put a finger on it. And I certainly couldn't name it. But there it was. Mother's intuition.
Seven is allergic to (wait for it) plastic. Yes, plastic. That most ubiquitous of materials, the most versatile component, that kid-friendly everything: plastic.
We started a sweep this week. All non-Seven friendly toys have been escorted upstairs, to the boys' room. I didn't have the heart to force Oli to give up his Little People collection, or to make Mani abandon his love of Duplos. Instead, we're reworking how we use our space. Bedrooms have historically been sleep quarters and little else around here, but that's changing as we ask ourselves how we can give the other kids access to the toys they adore and still keep Seven breathing happy.
We're learning. Adapting. Figuring things out. Because that's what we do, isn't it? Life throws us a curveball and we, the clay jars that have been entrusted to nurture and care for these precious souls, we get on with it. We absorb the new norm and put our foot to the path, knowing that God saw all this coming ... and cared enough to let us in on part of the story.