We went to the fair. I told you how scared the little girl in me who was never allowed to try was feeling. You squeezed my hand and urged: “You can do this Mummy. Be brave. I believe in you.”

How lucky I felt to have you beside me. We headed over to the aqua zorbing and read the rules together.

“Do not do this if you have problems with your neck (yes), back (yes), legs (yes).”

So I didn’t. I’m still unsure whether I went looking for this disclaimer to absolve that fearful part of me from the burden of needing to try or not. I have been telling myself that I could have talked myself into it if the disclaimer had only mentioned one of my affected body parts, but I don’t honestly know how true that is.

For one thing, no other adults seemed to be having a go. Is this just a sign of how utterly boring adults get, so unplayful? I didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t really sensible for fully grown people to be throwing themselves about in a hamster ball.

The amazing thing was though, just how accepting you were. When you read the rule yourself and I asked if it sounded like a good idea for Mummy, you said “No.” But you were still pulling off your new sandals, determined to have a go. My limitations were not going to hold you back.

“You will tell me all about it won’t you?”

“Of course!” you smiled.

“Don’t just tell me it’s amazing. I want to know how it feels when you move, or being on the water, or in the big ball!”

“I will Mum!”

I stood behind the barrier, watching you beam as you were sealed in the ball. You bounced around in the water, falling back on your back and clambering up again. I winced as I imagined swapping places with you, feeling a little sad for myself but knowing I made the right choice. And so, I loved it for you instead.I

It was a warm day and I quickly felt dehydrated and exhausted. But you didn’t leave my side, holding my hand, encouraging me to walk on and murmuring that I was safe, that I could do this. You have been “my little cheerleader” since you were tiny and I felt so glad to have you with me.

“Mummy, do you know what I wish?””

“What’s that?””

“That I had magical powers to make you not disabled so you could play on all things you wanted to and have the perfect life!”

Oh. My. Heart.

I have never pretended to you that being disabled is easy. It has built the incredible empathy you show. I promised long ago never to lie to you. But, I would never want the realities of being disabled to make you think I am not utterly blessed and grateful to be your mum.

So I replied: “I don’t worry so much about not having the perfect life because I am lucky enough to have the perfect family.”

“Yeah.” you agreed breezily. “My life is not so perfect either.”

I held in a laugh. Kids really do begrudge not getting ice cream on every outing don’t they? I normally pull my girls up on inadvertently sounding ungrateful but I knew that this grudge had absolutely been inherited from me, so I owned that by holding in any reproach.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

Not missing a beat, you told me: “I get told “No” a lot!”

I giggled. “It’s kinda like that being 6 my love!”

If you want the truth, ask a child!