Hey there, newly diagnosed self. I haven’t spoken to you for a while. Remember when we touched base a while back, I spoke to you to reassure you as you sit there in that ‘seat’- we are a few years ahead of the turbulence you’re experiencing today. I’m like a human crystal ball to you….if only I could actually reach out and tell you that as it stands, despite you thinking your world has collapsed, you’re ok.
It’s Thursday today. Its been a funny old day. A day which deserved a blog of its’ own.
Tomorrow, being Friday, will bring the last day of the Easter Holidays. A day where I will look back at two weeks with the little Smiths and through this chocolate fest of a break from school, can say we had fun. We have played, coloured and baked. We have had pyjama days and overdosed on Peppa Pig repeats. My skills at keeping within the lines in colouring activities are vast improved whilst my feet bare more scars than usual from Lego bricks hidden within the shag pile rug.
I’ve watched our Easter Holiday, generally from within the four walls of our lounge, be quite different to those of friends (or people I know who I’ve stalked on social media). You see, school holidays are very different when you are a family including disabled twins.
This break, Mike had very limited time off work. I’ve not yet reached the point when I move our carers in 24/7. So this means my ability to take the children out is quite compromised! I yet have no mummy super power to grow several pairs of extra hands (that skill must have been hidden somewhere with this elusive magic wand I’m searching for). I can’t run after a busy Zach and push Reuben’s wheelchair and carry all the equipment and medicines and a ball or a picnic all at once. Most importantly, I cannot lift Reuben’s wheelchair independently; even Thor would struggle. So, more often that not, we stay home.
Don’t get me wrong, we don’t let disability have us under the thumb. When I have a carer or unsuspecting relative by my side we grab that chance at the big wide world. We aren’t strangers to the giraffe enclosure at the zoo or the fish at the aquarium. But days out when you have just Mummy to play with are far and few between.
So, this holiday hasn’t been full of LegoLand or swimming or ice creams at the beach. It is also a million miles away from trips to Europe or far off Caribbean waters. (I can’t even get him in the car – I’d have no hope on a plane. But to be fair I think our sun seeking tropical days are long gone). Our days have generally been making our own fun at home, wondering if I could possibly risk a vertebrae and launch the wheelchair into the boot, to get a change of scenery. I subsequently considered this far too risky in terms of any sort of Health and Safety so again, we stayed home, and opted to push him to the local bakery for a sticky bun instead.
Holidays aren’t such holidays for us as the general routines of care continue whether we are on ‘holidays’ or not. Hoisting and physio and appointments and drugs and therapy and sensory needs and changing and lifting and feeding and emergencies and worries and doctors. Carry on regardless.
It is however fun to have the twins at home, as well as Harry of course, but our home based activities are conducted because it’s difficult to do much else, rather than being an active choice. We therefore do all the painting and ipad games and colouring that one can manage, amidst the sensory lights, bubble tubes and increasing numbers of equipment pieces that form part of our our family furniture.
Obviously, this wasn’t what made this a funny old Thursday. The above is the just the norm for us, sadly. However, today was a thursday when two things happened and two people touched my heart.
One of those people is someone local to us, in our town and whom has, with his wife, become our friends. They are NICE people. Kind people, who seem to be well known and well loved by many. People who have been through their own share of heartache, yet remember others and reach out. Just bloody nice people. Running people…
A while back Steve approached me and said ‘I wanna help the twins’. I was listening. I never cease to amaze at the kindness and generosity of others when it comes to my boys. He wanted to use his skills at running (and he is one of those talented amazing runners who is like an incredible machine) and run the London Marathon. For my babies. Is that not plain awesome? Yep, totally.
I explained how I needed to convert my vehicle. I explained how the lift in a vehicle would save my back and Reuben’s dignity. I explained how he has vulnerable hips and needed surgery and needed to travel now in his wheelchair and not his car seat. I explained how we needed a bigger space to accomodate everything we need to take out with us. I explained how a conversion would mean I could take them out on my own, like other mummies. I explained how the right vehicle would transport the twins to different experiences in their childhood. I explained that just getting into a car so many can take for granted but to us it’s a mission. I explained this would transform our life as a family.
Steve listened. Then he explained how he was going to run London to raise the money to make the above happen.
He has been raising money for the last few weeks. He is doing great. Huge thank yous and Reuben high fives are coming his way. But along side that fundraising is the training. The running, the time away from his family (Hi Amanda!) to train, the effort, the crappy weather, the dedication, the aches, pains and nipple trauma! I’ve been a water stop for him on a long run and that training plan is no walk in the park (literally). That’s some serious shiz. Then there’s the pressure of London and achieving his time to fulfil his target. I’m not in with the running lingo but I understand he wants a ‘sub3:30′ which to me sounds like bloody hard work as to be honest, if I attempted it I’d be happy to finish it in 3 days.
We have supported him the last few weeks, but today (funny old thursday) I realised something. Steve won’t let this lie. He has a long long way to the fundraising target and he is pushing everything he can in the training and the fundraising for one reason. He didn’t have to take this on. But he did and he made a pledge to help my boy. To open up his world. I have today seen the passion in his quest, to try and achieve this, to let this happen for Reuben and to conquer London for himself. True dedication that will be a life changer for that little boy asleep under his sensory lights right now.
By something many others will see as simple, we have been given an opportunity here. We have the potential to really see something different for us and our way of life…which is where my other thing on this funny old Thursday came in.
Today, I went to my Auntie’s funeral. She was such an incredible woman. A lady who had led a full life, a lover of family and fun. Always with a zest for life and a twinkle in her eye she had a fulfilled time in her 96 years. She lived through the War years and saw much personal grief through the loss of her husband and two children, yet she embraced life. I sat in the chapel and through eulogy was reminded of the many reasons that made her amazing and why I loved her. Not just that she had the best smile and giggle around, or that she taught me to play pontoon that would stand up well in any casino, but that she took life by the hand and made it her own. God bless.
And that’s what made today poignant for me. I learnt a lesson at the very last point before we said our goodbyes from my wise auntie – take your opportunities and make life your own.
Through Steve’s mission to achieve this for Reuben he is giving us an opportunity to make the twins’ life even better than it is already. To get them out there. Get to see more of what’s out there rather than just, as much as we love it, home.
Good luck Steve. I really hope you personally fulfil your dreams in London and your dreams for Reuben. I in turn promise you that if you succeed in this mission – Reuben’s Adventure of a Life Time – I will give him that adventure of a life time. I will seize that opportunity and make life our own.
What do they say? ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade’. Well, because of two very special people in my life on this funny old Thursday, our lemonade just got a whole lot sweeter.
Today is World Cerebral Palsy Day. This is a day when people can raise awareness of the condition, when myths can be expelled and maybe we could learn a thing or two. I never knew a lot about CP before my twins were born, and certainly I cannot profess to knowing anywhere near everything now! There are many types of CP and every person experiences it in their own individual way. The twins’ life with CP is just one tiny fleck of a huge umbrella of a condition that impacts a huge amount.
I have learnt a lot along the way this past 6 years, but I have a huge amount yet to learn and to take on board. To excuse myself for using such a cliche, it really is a journey that I’m on with my little guys. A massive learning curve in which you get a sociology, psychology, biology and PE course along the way! Right from the start you get to become an expert in your own individual field, knowing your baby’s subject matter in the greatest of detail, helped along by the medical professionals that guide your path. However, you become the person who knows it far better than a text book could ever teach – mainly as you have the professor of it all living right there with you 24/7. The biggest teacher for us has been the twins themselves.
What have you two taught me the most? What has been my biggest lesson so far? This is a very simple question to answer. At the start (and to be fair, also continually along the way) there are a lot of people who told me how hard it would be. They informed me what you guys may never do, or achieve, and how things would be so very, very different.
Well yes, things are different. There are tricky days when you feel lonely and frankly, terrified. There are days when you feel you are climbing a never ending mountain. You are hoping that the summit will come, yet in many ways you know even then, there are challenges the other side. There are days where you’d love a duvet day to hide yourself from your worrying world. BUT, amidst the dark days there are far more days of light. Days which are easier to rid yourself of that duvet.
Because….what no one told me at the very start was how much joy you would bring me. How much you would transform and contribute to my life in the most positive of ways imaginable. How you would enter my world and like a whirlwind change my perspective on life and let me appreciate the most fundamental yet wonderful things. No one told me how I would become the most protective of lionesses and fight with an armour fit for a warrior to get you what you needed to be your most beautiful selves. No one warned me that this life doesn’t just come with heartache, it comes with a heart that grows so huge out of love and warmth and pride I could burst. No one told me how rewarding and fulfilled I would feel. No one told me how much love you would give me back….and how incredible you would become.
No one told me it would be ok. It’s more than ok.
So, on World Cerebral Palsy Day, I want to thank the twins for being the best (and most awesome) teachers I have ever had. In turn, I promise to be a model student.
I want to share something again that I wrote a while back, which seems appropriate for today. It’s my promise to my twins.
‘From the beginning to the end….’
I was your home: as you grew into two tiny babies, sharing the space before you were born. My commitment to you started then. With every single scan, I willed for you to still be there, fighting the odds, your little hearts beating. I was your pin cushion for all the injections and drugs that would keep you there just a few days longer…..I feel the guilt my body didn’t let that happen.
I was your companion: in the first few months, a vigil at your incubators. Sitting between you, looking at you through the glass, perfection in tiny form. I hope you didn’t hear my tears as you became poorly…
I was your hope: as you had a difficult start to life. When the doctors words were full of doubt, my hope for you stayed alive. We won’t ever be without hope, as that is what keeps us ticking over.
I AM your belief : that with all the help we give you, you will be happy and achieve what you are destined to. When I am knocked over by bad news from one of the many professionals we see, I get up again, eyes cloudy with tears. You give me the reasons to get up again. You teach me what’s important in life. I don’t sweat the small stuff.
I am your strength: though it sometimes feels my legs may buckle with the worry and my heart hurts, we carry on – together. I’ve had to pluck courage and strength out from somewhere I never knew existed.
I am your protector: when people stare at you or say things that aren’t very pleasant, I shield you. I’ve grown a suit of armour that protects us all. I fight for you when things must be done, must change, are needed. I will win your battles.
I am your voice: you cannot speak the words but your eyes tell me what you think. I am your interpreter as I understand your sounds which the rest of the world cannot. You speak through me.
I am your message: that disability will not stop you, even if it means we have to do things a bit differently. To me, you are perfect the way you are though I would take away your problems in a heartbeat to make your lives easier. I wish I could have your struggles instead.
I am your nurse: to detect your pain and every day give you your drugs. I am your clown as I make you laugh to make the medical stuff a bit more fun.
I am your biggest fan: when you do something they said you’d never do. Which is quite often. You amaze me. Yet my heart breaks a tiny bit more every time I think how hard things are for you and how life should’ve been. The ‘what if’s’ eat me up.
I am your provider: to give you everything you need and do the things you can’t do for yourself. I will wash, feed, change, clothe and play with you. I will walk a thousand marathons if it gets you what you need. You will never be without.
I am your comforter: through your pain, upset and frustrations, day and night, I will hold you and wipe your tears. I will cry with you.
I am your admirer: for your spirit and determination and your beautiful faces. I love you.
I am your mummy: I will always be there for you. when the time comes when I’m not here any more, I will watch over you..
….and I will become your Guardian Angel.
I’m gonna tell you a little story. It’s not one from the age of beautiful fairy tales or a favourite bed time story. It’s not a classic tale from another era or a traditional folk tale or fable. This is reality; real life. It’s something that happened to me and to Reuben in our very own community and one which was very poignant in our own world.
I don’t really know how it’s happened that the twins are now 6. Six years have passed me by in a blink. In so many ways, it feels like I don’t remember my life without them. In other ways it feels only yesterday I first set eyes on them whizzing past me in the delivery suite, having just been taken from my tummy where they were warm and cuddled up together, yet suddenly were separate in little plastic boxes on their urgent journey to the neonatal unit. If you’ve never seen a travel incubator, it’s safe to say they could rival time travel devices in their appearance, or even space flight devices – my babies being like little tiny spacemen in their rockets.
For a while I’ve blogged about having a disabled child (or 2). These thoughts and ramblings are just my own. Everyone approaches things differently and has varying feelings and emotions in similar circumstances. Disability knows no prejudice – it will affect people from different walks of life, race, religion and age. In a similar way, the way people react is different. There is no rule book or instruction manual. The ability to cope with life when disability touches you can never be generalised. One thing though that generally people share, is that there are good days and bad days – and days when you feel the stuffing (no festive timing pun intended there) has been knocked out of you.
There are great days when you feel you are floating on a tide of elation, when things are going well – or at least you haven’t had any really crap news/results recently.
There are days of status quo when things are (sometimes unnervingly) calm. I sometimes get twitchy in these periods of calm and wonder when the storm will arrive. Sometimes that storm is a rough one, sometimes it’s just a suggestion of a storm and more of a rain cloud, which is there just to remind me that nature’s in charge. Mother Nature remains a body of power I have an existing love/hate relationship with and one whom I respect, but based on past experience, do not fully trust.
Then there are the days which totally suck. When you feel you could pull a ‘duvet day’, to hide from the world and what you have to face, but you realise you can’t as you have little people that rely on you, more than the average little people of the same age, because of the drugs, hoisting, appts and all the ‘stuff’. These days are when you cry into your weetabix when you least expect it. When everything just seems to be really hard or very scary. Maybe it’s a medical decision you need to consider or someone has passed comment about your situation, which may or may not have been intended to upset you. Maybe you have had to battle for your baby/ies more than normal. (And normal is hard enough). Maybe you’ve seen the passing of another family’s little one, when you know that could have easily been yours. Maybe your heart is hurting a little more than normal, just because you wish things were different. Maybe there’s no trigger, other than life is just hard some days.
This week, I came across another type of ‘day’. Not ‘good’, not ‘ok’ and not ‘bad’. It wasn’t a great day, it certainly wasn’t an average quiet one, but it also wasn’t awful.
It was the day when I found peace.
Since Reuben was born, there have been questions over why he has the disability he does. Questions over what was the exact reason he suffered brain damage as he did. This wasn’t the almighty ‘Why Him’ question that only a parent can ask, a sort of rhetorical question that only the emotion of a grieving parent for their healthy baby can pose. This was an actual scientific enquiry of a question that has taken years to finally understand. Some people close to me knew we were exploring this, but most didn’t. It was private as, as his parents, we needed to do this in the correct way, so to reach the honest and accurate answers.
Already, Reuben has started to notice he is different to other children of his age. I have already had to deal with ‘Mummy, why don’t my legs work?’ earlier than I expected. This enquiry and systematic way to find out exactly why that is, was important.
This was important for one reason and one reason only – so Reuben himself could know what happened to him and why. I will always be his advocate, his closest ally and caregiver as he grows, but he has a right when he is older to have the answers to why he needs those things. Essentially, why he has wheels as we have legs; why life is a bit trickier for him than his peers. We set out to understand it and get the hard facts to answer possibly the hardest and most hurtful question of my own life. One which I never expected to deal with but one I manned up and faced. Not for anyone else in the world, but for the centre of my world. For Reuben.
It took a long time. Essentially this meant that for a long while, I was unsure of why we lived the life we do. For years, not knowing if life could have been different if he had been born a different day, on a different hospital shift, in a different unit. Could his life have been different and all of this heartache avoided…was this an act of human error or just the roll of life’s natural but very cruel dice.
I was in limbo land not knowing, only sure that I needed to have the accurate facts to move forward, to be able to look him in the eye when he is ready to know.
So that’s what we did. We found out. I made it my personal mission as his mother to get this for him. To understand. To never be in quandary about the why’s.
It was looked at in its’ finest detail, and when I had the meeting to learn the results of the enquiry, my limbo land stopped. I listened and I learned and I came to a state of peace. A peace I have never had since the minute he was diagnosed on 6th December 2009, at 12 Midday. That day tore my heart apart, and on 26th November 2015 it started to heal.
Ironically, these answers were given to me on their 6th birthday. Back in London, 6 years to the day of his birth, I learned that (for whatever reasoning of the higher powers..), this was Reuben’s destiny. This was the way he was meant to be. No person was to blame, nothing would have been different in a different place or time. Prematurity was the culprit here. Prematurity took his independence and made his life as it is, nothing more.
The understanding of why ‘bad things’ happen will never be understood, but I never set out to find out the answers to the universe and its’ ways. I just needed to know this was no one’s fault. And it wasn’t. I suppose there is always going to be my own personal guilt that my body failed them both, that I couldn’t stay pregnant longer and keep them safe. But that’s my own mind battles.
Ultimately, this is what I would have chosen the answer to be, should I have dared to consider an outcome. My worst fear would be that that someone did this, that it was an act of negligence or an accident. For then I know full well I would have started to imagine him as if that hadn’t happened. Imagining him running in the playground or sat on the floor playing. It wasn’t someone’s fault – this was Mother Nature, working her ways. This was Reuben’s life being mapped out at the start, and now I know this was how his life was to be, I’m finally at peace with it. That may be a strange concept for some, but you have to have closure on the past to move forward into the future. I’m not saying it’s ok, it’s far from ok. But that magic wand never materialised despite my deepest yearning for it. Although in so many ways, I will always grieve for what should have been, I now feel I can close that book, as this was how Reuben was meant to be; and he’s fabulous.
He is my beautiful boy. I now know why he is built as he is. I can wake up each day for however long I have him, and know I personally sought his right to the answers to his future questions. When the time comes and only when the time is right, we will have that conversation. No doubt there will be tears, no doubt he will experience many emotions as he grows and learns why he is who he is. I am at peace with it and I will help him to reach that peace too. Until then, and forever after then, I will stand by his side and arm him with self esteem, laughter, joy and love. I will teach him to love himself like I love him. I will make sure he is proud of himself. I will make sure disability never stands in his way and his life is fulfilled. Prematurity gave him a different destiny to most, but we have so much to be grateful for and a life ahead to enjoy and to cherish. We can’t look back, as we aren’t going that way….
So now we know. It’s ok. Will I promise never to cry into my weetabix or sob in Tesco’s car park again? No, I probably will do. (In fact I guarantee I will). But now I can do those things with a deeper level of understanding.
My findings don’t change anything apart from making things better actually. I’m more calm and peaceful with our lot. Whatever the next chapters bring, we’re ready for it. Never before did a Billy Joel lyric resonate in my life until now, but ‘I couldn’t love you any better, I love you just the way you are’. That’s just how it is.
Something happened to me this week. Something which in the grand scheme of the universe may not seem huge to many, but to me was both heart warming and poignant.
Walking the twins home from school, a lady with three children was about 100 metres in front of me. She turned and checked we were ok once, obviously having heard Zach cry out as he tripped onto the gravel path. Cerebral Palsy and being tired after a long week at school don’t mix overly well. That was nice of her to do that, I remember thinking. (He was fine by the way, aside from some grazed knees which have only just healed from the last tumble. His cerebral palsy likes to play havoc with his centre of gravity).
We continued our walk home, which includes stopping at a little wooden fence, with a sharp turn right into our road. The lady and her children, two walking and one in a pram, were stopped at that fence as we approached. It was then that this thing happened – when I no longer saw her as a lady in the street going about her walk home just like me, but a lady who reached out to me and touched my heart in a way I shall never forget.
As I approached, pushing Reuben in his wheelchair and clasping Zach’s hand to avoid him going awol, she turned round to me. She reached into her bag, which had previously been nestled onto her pram, and handed me a Chocolate gift. Not at any other time in my life (not even the trip to Cadbury world in Birmingham when I discovered Twirl bites) has chocolate played in such a significant moment for me.
On handing this unexpected gift to me out the blue, this stranger looked me in the eye, squeezed my hand and said ‘enjoy something nice just for you. I read your blog’.
Bolt of lightning from the true beauty of human nature right there. That chocolate gift stood for kindness, generosity, understanding and empathy. It could have been chocolate or the Crown Jewels – it didn’t matter (and we all know how much I’m partial to a sparkle or two). It stood as an altruistic gesture which took me by surprise, but one where it was completely clear how this total stranger understood the complexities of my life. One stranger to another reaching out a hand and gift of love ‘just because’ and needing nothing in return. A random act of kindness.
I don’t know if I will ever see that lady again. I thanked her profusely but maybe if she ever chooses to read my ramblings again on my blog she will see this one, and really get to know how much she touched my heart. A single gesture spoke a million words. So to ‘Chocolate Lady with no name’….thank you, you’re a beautiful person.
I am extremely lucky. I consider myself very very fortunate to be surrounded by people who have made this ‘journey’ that we find ourselves on easier. I am lucky that I get direct insight into the fabulous parts of humanity, when people want to support or help us. The list has been endless of these human treasures and so many times my mind has been blown by the way people put themselves out or go the extra mile to make a difference.
A brilliant example of that is obviously DIYSOS, when people I have never met gave up their own time and money to change my family’s life. I live everyday in the result of people’s generosity and hard work. I have a constant fantastic reminder of this as I put on Reuben’s fibre optic twinkly lights as he sleeps, or put Zach to bed in his incredible room, or Harry plays in his Hideout. I don’t need to watch the show on repeat for me to know the care and love that went into it all, I feel it within my 4 walls each day.
This extends further to so many people who have helped in my fundraising for the twins. The NHS is a truly wonderful thing, I worked for it for a long time before we needed it after the twins arrival, yet it doesn’t have a bottomless pit of money. Fundraising is our way of life now. Luckily lots of people have wanted to get aboard this train and we have been able to secure therapy sessions Reuben otherwise wouldn’t have had. We’ve bought them pieces of equipment that have made their lives easier. When they outgrew them we handed them onto other children who needed them, making a difference to them too.
I’ve often sat and wondered what it is about the twins that people want to help them. Maybe it’s that realisation that any of those people could be in our shoes right now. What happened to us could have happened to anyone and that whole ‘but by the grace of God’ thing is hugely haunting. The dice just rolled in a different direction for us. I find it incredibly humbling that people go to such efforts for my babies. I’m don’t know why they do. Maybe it’s just cos the twins are so blimmin cute (but guess I’m biased). Maybe it’s just because these people are truly kind individuals. Maybe they want to make a difference and see the twins benefit from whatever they can do to help. I don’t know. I do know however that I couldn’t do what I do, without all these people. I never expect anything of anyone. I do know my life would be a million times harder without them.
Only this week I had a cuppa with a lovely man who is going to run the London marathon for the twins in April. (From someone who only runs if there’s a sale on in a shoe shop, I’m in awe). I know a group of people who want to climb three mountains for them in June. Tomorrow a local hair salon will run a fundraising event using their skills and talents making people beautiful in exchange for donations. A truly wonderful lady in a fortnight will get muddy and electrocuted (what the heck) in a running event. Electrocuted in mud. Let’s just ponder on that for a moment….
This is the craziness, beauty and power of people. When I think I could not be any more surprised, I have a particular friend who has the most quirky beautiful mind that works ten steps ahead of her, always thinking of the next hair brain but frankly brilliant event and recruiting volunteers who want to have some fun with us along the way. She knows who she is….. and they firmly broke the mould when they made her. This is complemented by my intelligent, caring and loyal reliable wing woman who makes stuff happen. She’s incredible. Sacrificing so much time for us as she leads a busy and successful job and has a family. Where would I be without these two. What a duo.
But where would I be without everyone who has ever helped us – all the other walks, runs, combat sessions, cycles, cake sales and Balls that have made my children’s lives better. For that I owe many thank yous.
Of course, whilst most people show their beautiful colours, I have met and known some who haven’t been as pleasant. I guess this is the flip side to human nature. The woman who called Reuben a ‘mong’ in the supermarket, the stares and the whispers when we’re out, the mother nearby who felt there were no need for disabled children in a mainstream school, the person who didn’t see the point in raising extra money for a ‘retard’. (If there’s ever a word that can make my blood boil it’s that one). The person who screamed at me in the car park that disabled kids should not get such privileges like a Blue Badge. (Not being funny love, I don’t see it as a privilege and I certainly don’t think it’s great my kids are disabled just so I get to park ten feet nearer to the shop door).
To the person who looked at me and said my boys would be a burden on me for the rest of my life….
In my opinion all of those things are wrong. Certainly, the twins are not a burden. They are a huge gift. So many people are never lucky enough to be graced with children of their own – I got two at once. If that’s not lucky then what is? Yes it’s hard at times, (most days), but these boys contribute to my life in the most positive of ways. They have taught me so much about determination, belief, perseverance and love. They are a inspiration, not a burden, and I thank my lucky stars they came into my life.
There are some people that were once part of my life, but for whatever reason to do with the twins have chosen not to be now. In my opinion, they are missing out on something wonderful. There are friends who I thought would stand by my side and walk this journey with me, but they have chosen not to. I have no idea why, yet I can not dwell on the disappointment of others’ choices and behaviour. I will move forward with the most fabulous friends that I have, of which I’m blessed with the best.
For every negative person and detrimental, often offensive, opinion I’ve been fortunate enough to meet another 100 people whose heart and approach is kind. People who accept the twins for being Zach and Reuben and nothing more. I’m going to come into contact with negative ones for the rest of my life no doubt so I now just rise above it and be the better person.
Better people are the ones I am lucky to have in my life. I know I’ll meet even more as the twins grow. In a society which can often be soul destroying and frightening, when you turn on the news to another terrorist attack or tragedy, it’s so energising and wonderful to know that in the main, people are good. I live everyday where I’m lucky my children are on the receiving end of goodness, of kindness and of love. From friends, from neighbours, from family and from community. But also from complete strangers. ‘Friends who you haven’t met yet’ but also those who will reach out to you, when you least expect it and who may only come into your life for a fleeting moment but make an impact for a very long time.