Last night as I tucked Edgar into bed far later than usual, he picked up one of his favorite stuffed animals–one that you would have thought had been waiting all evening for this opportunity to talk–and assumed a voice befitting the creature. The stuffed animal asked me, “Do you know Edgar?” I replied that I did–and very well. The stuffed animal then inquired, “What can you tell me about him?” As I regaled the stuffed animal (and a beaming Edgar) with his most endearing qualities, the stuffed animal then asked, “Why are some things so hard for Edgar?”
I tried to explain–to the stuffed animal, of course–that Edgar has had more challenges in just six years of life than some people have in an entire lifetime, that the medicine he has to take–not to mention epilepsy itself–affects him, and that his body does not always let him be at his best–but that the people who love him know him at his best and see his potential.
Edgar thought about this as the stuffed animal asked, “Can you always help Edgar be his best?”
Helping someone be his best–an earnest entreaty from a beautiful six-year-old boy whose body has seldom been his friend . . . an entreaty not just from this child to his mother but from everyone to everyone.