My Daughter is an Amputee.

My daughter has been an amputee for 5 months.
Five very long, yet oh-so-short months. In less than half a year, we have faced a multitude of fears, obstacles, and situations I’ve dreaded but also never could have imagined— all in one.

One thing I’ve known since the day I saw Parker’s leg on my 20-week scan is that, no matter the outcome, I’d have to raise her to be strong and resilient. Not just physically, but mentally, too. Kids can be mean, a little too honest, and sometimes cruel. We all know this; it’s part of making friends, finding your people, and growing up. But having a physical disability makes the staring, whispers, and name-calling different.

Life changed for us before we even left Scottish Rite after her amputation.
The looks started before we made it through the surgical wing elevators. The look begins as a sweet smile when people notice a baby. I follow the look as their gaze falls to the space where Parker’s left foot used to be. That smile quickly turns into doe eyes and a sympathetic frown. You know, the kind you give when you see a disabled child with a missing leg. We get it, everywhere we go.

Why do we give this look to people who look different, show struggle, or don’t meet our expectations? Why can’t you keep the smile on your face? She’s not hurting, she’s not struggling, and she’s still the same baby you initially felt joy seeing. I think it’s mostly because it’s uncomfortable. It’s not what you’re used to, and it’s not something you talk about. But it should be.

In the past week or so, we’ve had three very different encounters with kids and their adults. Each situation hasn’t left my mind, and I know they won’t be the last. They’re just the beginning of the interactions we’ll have. My daughter is an amputee, and it’s okay to ask about it.

Our first stop brings us to a family gathering.
There were so many people there—families, singles, children, animals. A million toys and areas of entertainment for the kids. I’m seated in a play area with Parker, and she’s independently playing. Several children are nearby, but they continue to move throughout the room, not glued to this spot the way Parker is. A couple of kids come near us to play. I smile and scoot back a little to give them more space. The older child notices Parker’s leg but never says anything. I see her glance at it periodically, and soon I notice she keeps moving toys away from Parker, out of her reach.

It takes several minutes before the oldest child encourages the younger one to start building a fort. Initially, I thought it was a fun, typical thing for kids to do. But then, I realized they were building it with the intention of putting Parker in it. The oldest one was informing the others that Parker looked different, so she had to stay "out there." Eventually, they stayed inside the fort themselves, and Parker kept trying to share toys with them through the windows, giggling and babbling at them. They blocked all the windows so she couldn’t play. My daughter is an amputee, and it’s okay to ask about it.

Next stop, a birthday party.
Same scenario: loud, lots of kids, and more adults. I don’t know any of these people, and none of them know anything about Parker. Her prosthetic is visible, and it keeps getting caught on her jeans (because, let’s face it, jeans weren’t made for toddlers with prosthetics, but that’s a different story). I sit down in the living room near some other moms who are chatting so I can fix what’s going on with her leg. It’s slipping, her pants are bunched up, it’s all kinds of wrong.

After a few minutes of wrestling with a toddler’s dinosaur leg, one of the moms comes over, kneels in front of us, and lowers her voice. She whispers, “My daughter just took me outside and asked me what was going on with your daughter’s leg. I was wondering if it would be okay for her to look, and if you might explain it to her?” Yes. Yes, a million times yes. I invited her daughter to come sit by Parker so they could talk. We chatted. She asked questions, and I answered them. My daughter is an amputee, and it’s okay to ask about it.

Last stop: the park.
We went to the park as a family so Parker could play while my husband fished. We met a little boy who had just turned three, and his mom. This sweet boy was instantly fascinated by Parker. It only took a few minutes for him to sit down next to her and ask about her leg, gesturing to her prosthetic. I did my best to explain that she has a “super cool robot leg” that helps her walk and play, just like his two legs. He was curious, sweet, and sincere. He giggled and started referring to her as “robot girl” (in the kindest way) and continued to show her how he could be a robot, too.

The only issue was his mom. She seemed uncomfortable. And by “a little,” I mean a lot. She kept telling him to stop talking about the robot leg, to stop bringing it up, and to stop asking about it. No matter how many times I reassured her that it was okay and he was just fine, she pressed on. My daughter is an amputee, and it’s okay to ask about it.

Not everyone will be as open and honest about their disabilities, injuries, illness, or prosthetics. But I promise, I would always prefer someone ask than give Parker that look. For some reason, acknowledging differences—like a prosthetic—feels taboo. It shouldn’t be. Because even at only 16 months old, my child can tell when children don’t want to be her friend because of her disability. She’ll feel outcasted when she sees your look, and she’ll grow up learning to hide her differences because of your discomfort.

My daughter is an amputee, and it is okay to ask about it.