The title of this is hugely inappropriate but given how he's handling it, with his usual nonchalance and Super Cooper ways, I decided to use it anyway.
There are times when you do things you'd never, EVER dream of doing. I had one of those moments last night. I had my little six year old dude on my lap, absorbing his little boy giggles and the best hugs and whispers in the world, and teaching him to say a new word:
Cooper received this diagnosis yesterday and twenty-four hours later, my heart is still attempting to deal with it. It stems from head trauma and a van door over two years ago, recently rearing up in our world with little seizures that don't seem to phase him but freak me out beyond words. He's got a fabulous physician, hates the taste of his medication, but thinks the idea of Med-Alert dogtags sounds uber-cool. In the grand scheme of things, we're still very lucky, and I know this, and I accept this, but the blood that courses through my veins wants nothing more than to make this all go away, and let him be just a normal little dude who doesn't have to worry about a thing in the world, much less how to pronounce Ep-i-lep-sy.
Shake, rattle and roll, dude face. Momma's got your back.