It took a few years, even after they had learned to talk, for my daughters to notice my wheelchair or ask me about it. Children are amazing that way. They don’t discriminate at a fundamental level. When my oldest, Poe, was learning her letters. Her p, d, b and q’s were undistinguishable, because really why should orientation matter? She unerringly knew which one she had drawn. There is an age, too, that magic tricks were wasted on them. Why shouldn’t a little red ball disappear from my hand and appear inside an upturned cup? Shouldn’t all fathers come with wheels? For several years, I was drawn without my wheelchair alongside their mum and sister. I was the large stick figure with a square of black hair on the top. When my wheelchair did appear in their drawings, I felt a twinge of regret. Not because I have negative feelings about my wheelchair as a representation of my disability. Quite the opposite: my wheelchair is a part of me. My life would be significantly poorer without it. The feeling passed, but came from the fear that the girls would see my chair first and me second, which is how it goes mostly.
They know their dad is different – that we go down hills really fast
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