It takes me six months to get to know my new neighbourhood. Not just the street names or where to get the best coffee, but each laneway, every shortcut, all the unmaintained bluestone paths. Which houses are home to hoarders, which businesses ignore ‘no junk mail’ signs and who mows their lawns on a Wednesday. This is the life of a parent whose child will only fall asleep in the pram. Come rain or slight drizzle, if I spot a yawn, a rub of the eyes or the pull of an ear, I whisk Young Me into the pram. Then the race is on—will she drift off to sleep or will my hips or knees give out first?
Watching her fall asleep is one of the great honours of parenthood so far. She stares at me intently with her indigo eyes. Her eyelids shut once, twice, then again for a final time—and she’s asleep. That’s on a good day. The alternative is that her eyes stay wide with wonder as we pass trees, dogs, birds. These endless walks inevitably result in another sleepless night. She will sleep like the proverbial baby she is. But my form of dwarfism means I will toss and turn from one sore hip to the other, trying to find the right angle for my swollen knee, stubbornly refusing painkillers because I’ve had worse.
Whether she falls asleep in the pram or not, there’s always one thing at the back of my mind: I have a 50 per cent chance of passing this disability of mine on to her.
Being a parent was never really on the cards.
I hear this so often from other parents with a disability. Whether a disability
