Mirthe on the slide. Anna, 3jr9mnd.

Anna slides up to me, a butter-colored piece of paper clutched to her chest. "Mama, I have a surprise for you."

I am always up for surprises, especially those of the drawing kind. "Oh? Let me see then." I study the drawing before me and Anna doesn't even need to be prompted for the story behind it.

"It's Mirthe on the slide. And I'm watching. And there's a storm coming, see" -- she jabs at the paper -- "thunderclouds. And a dog who might drown but probably won't. And there's letters of course." She pauses for breath but there's no story left, so she just breathes slowly in and out. Professionally, silently, I note that there's also a horizon line, and that Mirthe has actual lips and not just a C-smile.

"You're pretty proud of that drawing, aren't you, Beano." I keep my eyes on her, waiting for an answer, but she's so lost in the world of what she's just drawn, that she can barely manage the tiniest of nods. Yes. Yes I am.


There was a day -- a few months after she was born, before her arm began to heal and move again -- when I just lost it. I cried and cried, thinking about what her life was going to be like, feeling enormous guilt for insisting on the natural delivery and not the c-section that would have left both her arms perfect and whole. Feeling guilty that it wasn't enough that she was alive -- because she could have died during the delivery, or had irreversible brain damage -- but that I also wanted her perfect. The way she was for 41 weeks, under my heart. Oh God, I thought. Let her be creative, let her have a beautiful voice, an imagination. But please don't let her want to draw, because she won't be able to, with that stupid, damaged, imperfect arm.



Almost four years later, I have a daughter who loves to draw. Who surprises me daily with what she can do, who refuses to acknowledge that she has a handicap. She doesn't know any better and I am gradually waking up to the fact that she can do anything she sets her mind to.

And I am so, so proud of her. Yes I am.