Out of the Mouths of Babes

Kyle
So I’m scooting along on one of my neighborhood routes and pass the house with the two small children.  “Mom, look at that old lady!  She’s playing music--do you think she has any ice cream?”  Ah, children--they’ve taught me that they can handle most things if I’m direct and honest.  Children don’t worry about what’s polite to say.  If they want to know something, they ask. Unlike adults, who don’t want to embarrass me, children don’t pretend they understand or hear me (that telltale blank stare is a dead give away of a message not received).  They say so right away.  That’s much easier to deal with--no stress or second-guessing. 

Zoe
My grandchildren don't mind that I speak slowly, slur my words, need a rollator to walk, scoot from place to place, or take forever to move. I’ve been painted on, stickered on, treated like a big toy, a horse, an easily-bossed person and a game player that always dependably loses.  As a grandparent, I happily don’t have to discipline, say no, or think about more than one thing.  That’s what their parents are for (someone has to do it).  

As my grandchildren mature, they are my ever present helpers.  Six year old Kyle now places my rollator so I can reach it, rather than taking off and hiding it somewhere.  Seven year old Zoe offers me her hand when we encounter a step and I always take it, hold on to something stable, and pray that I won’t fall and crush her.  
Alexa
Four year old Lexi still lets me hold her on my lap on occasion, but gets up and down by herself, moves the stool over to the kitchen sink, and waits patiently for me to turn on the water.  They’re a ways from the eye-rolling years, but I know that’s coming. But more importantly, as a toddler, Lexi rode with me on a scooter at the zoo, where it all started.  “Hey,” I thought. “Here’s an idea that may work.”
The Zoo with Lexi

One of my nine year old granddaughter's friends, observing my ataxic gait, asked me if I was just old or had broken my leg. Determined to not be defensive, evasive, but rather honest and open, I started to explain. Sarah jumped in and said, "No, her brain just isn't talking to her feet." 

Sarah
“Okay, yeah,” I thought--that was one of the best explanations of Ataxia I had ever heard. The two children just moved on and never gave me a second thought.   I’ve got to remember that--brain, feet...

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