I was cruising Facebook while Charlie was in therapy and I spotted a prayer request in a friend’s status. She was asking for prayers for a family that had just lost their three-year-old daughter to cancer.

The announcement was cold water in the face because I recognized the last name instantly. You see, I knew that family, and I knew that they had already lost a daughter. In fact, our children had been in the hospital at the same time–mine had lived and theirs had not. I brought home my Charlie and they planned funeral.

What do you do with a revelation like that?

You search for answers–why? why did this happen? But there really isn’t one. Two children lost to two totally different illness–both of which are just luck of the draw.

You grasp for a reason because if there isn’t a reason–if bad things really do happen to good people–and in this case, over and over–then what does that mean for the rest of us? There’s no protection, no safe guard. We all want to believe that if we’re good people who lead good lives, then we’re safe from the worst. And if the worst has already happened, you like to believe that it’s a little insurance policy: you’ve had your slice of crap, so now it’s somebody else’s turn.

We wrap ourselves in these lies–we hug them tight at night when we sleep. We whisper them to ourselves when we’re scared.

But there it is: nobody’s safe. Nobody’s exempt.

Most days I know this and I accept it, but not this time. This time it shakes me and reminds of things I’d rather not know. This time, it’s real.

It’s been crazy around here. The twins are teething–not the kind of teething where I can see an actual tooth, but the thing before where they act like nutty beavers, gnawing on things, drooling excessively, and sleeping horribly. Fun times!

This, plus Charlie having an entire week off for Mardi Gras, has left me with approximately three brain cells, and none of them are functioning very well. I was looking through my phone, though, and realized that all the pictures I take during a week practically do the talking for me. So this week, I’m letting my iPhone talk for me. These pictures are from last week–I think–close enough. I told you there are only a few functioning cells up there!

This is my new method for going shopping with the twins. I call it “double-decker babies.” It’s actually pretty funny because people will come over to look  at the baby “on top,” and them whammo! I surprise them with a second baby. One lady actually jumped when she saw Louis down there.

Here’s a picture of Charlie waiting for the bus and listening to his iPad. He’s usually in his wheelchair, but this day the chair was already at school, so he rode in one of the bus’s car seats–how cool is that? The iPad has really improved the morning wait for the bus. Charlie and I are not the most patient people, so this keeps him entertained while we wait. I’m usually sitting next to him checking my email (or snapping his picture).

August has this new breathing thing that he does, where he emits a high-pitched sound when he breaths in. Only thing is–he only does it when he’s excited. I’ve taken him to the doctor once,  and the emergency room once, and gotten essentially no explanation. They’ve done x-rays, nothing. They check his oxygenation, it’s 100%.  He’s just got a weird, quirky, breathing thing that sends me and everyone else around into a complete panic when he does it. This kid is super-fun!

Awww. . . how sweet. Two brothers playing with the same toy. Not so much. Here, Charlie is showing Louie which buttons on this toy are the “good” ones, so maybe he’ll stopping pressing all the lame ones that Charlie doesn’t like.

Louie plays hard and he naps hard. Sometimes these two activities intersect.

This is Charlie, rocking the pincher grasp. That’s not just a special mommy inchstone, but an honest-to-goodness-printed-in-the-baby-books milestone. Can’t believe it.

Here’s Charlie waiting for the bus again–can you sense a theme here? It was the day that Kindergarten (Charlie is in Pre-K), has their parade. The kids were allowed to wear Mardi Gras shirts to school, but that proved to be almost impossible to find in his size. My MIL and I went to five different stores total before we came up with this–a woman’s size M shirt. It was one that’s meant to be tight and stretchy, so worked OK. Way too long, but we tucked it in. As you can see, Charlie thought it was just fine.

I was completely exhausted when I went to get Charlie off the bus at the end of the day, but I was absolutely re-energized when I saw him with his wheelchair covered in beads, flowers, and other goodies. It was positively uplifting–and I’m not sure I even knew what that word meant until this moment. I love that Charlie has a place in his school and that he’s a part of things in his own wacky, individual way.

That’s it! That, plus therapy, therapy, therapy, cooking dinner, teething twins, and gestating baby number four.

Without noticing it, four years have passed since Charlie decided to make his grand entrance into the world. Four entire years. Birthdays are always a little bitter-sweet with a special needs child–knowing where they should be and comparing it with where they are can be a tough pill to swallow. I’m lucky that this year it was easier than the last and I suspect that it will get easier as the years pass.

I can say, without a doubt, that three was the best year yet. So many times I have exclaimed over what a person he’s become and how it is truly enjoyable to spend time with him. School has been incredible at opening him up and letting his personality show itself–granted, it’s not always the cutest personality, but even that is worth celebrating.

Three was the year of communication. He gestures more purposefully, uses his eyes and vocal chords to make a point, he taps to get your attention and motions for help.  He is beginning to show signs of being able to communicate using augmentative communication–a door has been cracked and is waiting to be flung open.

Three was a year of affection. When I pick him up from school, he smiles wide. He leans towards others to be held by them. He smiles when you kiss him and throws a hand over you when he snuggles up in bed. He gestures to be picked up when Dad greets him in the evenings.

Three was a year of becoming his own person–he likes ketchup, which no one else in the family eats. He has friends at school that I don’t know and have never met. He manages himself in the world without his mom or dad for hours on end. He likes to turn the TV up loud and if you turn it down, he’ll wait til you leave and then turn it up again. He likes to hold his own spoon or fork although he’s still not good at getting food ON it in the first place.

The baby in him is slowly fading and I adore watching the real him emerge. There really is nothing more amazing than seeing the boy who was locked in his body beginning to emerge.

Do we have things yet to accomplish? Of course. Is it all perfect? Not at all.

But it is good. Very good. And that is more than enough for me.

Happy birthday, Charlie.