My son, B-Val, Little B, Buddy, Bucky etc. was born with a one-of-a-kind genetic condition, meaning he’s the only dude on the planet with his particular brand of superhuman DNA. We have lots of sleepovers at the hospital (aka orthopedic surgeries) and he gets to wear a Darth Vadar mask (aka BiPAP) every night. He’s a sensitive fellow who can smell a latex glove and a needle a mile away, so don’t even think about any surprise blood tests.
My son has just arrived at the all-important point in his development where he can describe his dreams. It’s pretty awesome. Want to hear one? Last night he dreamt he had a different mother, and that he was chasing her down the street. Sounds absolutely terrifying, but he was pretty amused and, dare I say, proud of himself for dreaming this up all by himself.
As this dude grows up I’ve become passionate about spreading disability awareness wherever and whenever I can. So far this goal has translated into calling out ableist bullshit ideas, usually with complete strangers on the street after they demand to know why he uses a wheelchair, but I’m hoping to also maybe educate a few people here in the not-real-life world.
Mother of Bones 