When Hannah was little, we would hold her in our arms and dance softly around the kitchen to this song every night before bedtime. It’s a song which came with us from Australia, but which became truly real and meaningful only once we were holding our little girl. Often, she would fall asleep in motion; often, I would cry tears of pure happiness. My cup didn’t feel just half full, it felt overflowing.
On the day Hannah was diagnosed, we kept our pre-bedtime tradition, but the tears which rolled were different. They were tears of despair, of fear, of grief. For a long time, I couldn’t listen to the song at all, much less dance with my daughter to it. The words and the sentiment and the memories hurt too much. Rett Syndrome had punctured my cup, and in the weeks and months that followed, its contents seemed to drip steadily away.
Today Hannah is 7, and I can dance with my daughter again. There is still hurt, but there are happy tears again too. I cannot pick her up and rock her to sleep in my arms anymore, but I can hold her hands and dance softly, tell her that she has filled my half empty cup, and promise to keep on trying to fill hers.
‘All I know is, all I know is, that I love you’.
Happy birthday beautiful.