I’m dreading tomorrow. I’m anticipating tomorrow. I can’t wait for it to come. The thought of it fills me with dread.
Tomorrow I should find out what is wrong with my little girl, if anything. Tomorrow I should find out if my non-toddling toddler is just a late walker or if there is, indeed, a more sinister reason for her lack of mobility.
Tomorrow we shall navigate our way to a room in a large hospital in the centre of a busy town, to sit with a consultant who will examine my beautiful baby.
He will tell me if there is a problem with her hips. A problem which will require an operation. A problem which will require a cast. For months. A problem which could – worse case scenario – see me have to give up my job to look after my special daughter.
Or he could tell us there is no reason for her wonky stature and lopsided gait. He could tell us she just isn’t ready to get up on her two feet by herself yet. He could tell us that, at nearly 2 years old, my little Frog is just a bit behind.
He could refer us to someone else, an expert in another area, to look at another reason for the fact she’s been up on her feet for 6 months now, struggling desperately to make it on her own, without holding her mum’s hand.
Or there may be no conclusion. I don’t know which is worse. The answer I dread or not knowing at all.