As a young boy, my brother was absolutely convinced he was Mighty Mouse.

Time after time, a towel attached to his neck with an old wooden clothes pin, he would climb to the top of anything (his favorite was the tall radiator by the front door) and attempt to jump off.  He was absolutely certain he could fly.

At the age of six months, it became clear I was allergic to a great many things – and by the age of one I had a serious problem with hives and eczema.  By two the asthma started, and I could have an attack if I ran even to the front door of our building.  I began to get allergy shots twice a week – I was allergic to, among other things, eggs, chicken, wheat and all wheat/grain products, corn and all corn products, (including corn syrup)  most fruit, spinach, mold, pollen, dust, and all animals that had any type of fur or hair.

Because of this, my family would eat one thing for meals, and I would eat another. 

My food was cooked with love from my mother, and served cheerfully, and I never remember being dissatisfied with it in any way – but I do think that it was another way my brain began to process that I was an exception to the rule of “normal”.

My mother was incredible.  I remember hearing the story, years after the fact, that she had been concerned that if I went trick or treating for Halloween, I would not be able to eat anything I received since I could have no corn syrup.  Her response was to go find a special diabetic candy that was safe for me, and unbeknownst to me she went around our entire neighborhood prior to Halloween night, and gave each neighbor a piece of the special candy, explaining her dilemma.   As I went from house to house, dressed in the fairy princess costume that I loved, I never dreamed that my mom was standing behind me as each door opened, pointing down at my head and mouthing the words, “this is the one!”  It never registered with me that each kind stranger suddenly ran and got a special piece of candy that had not been in the large bowl.  I only knew of a wonderful night, being a fairy princess, and a full bag of treats. 

By the age of seven I began twisting my ankles repeatedly, spraining them time and time again.  I had been born with my ligaments too long for my bones; so instead of holding my ankles in place, they basically did whatever they wanted to; I had my own little set of crutches, and was forced to used them often.  I was finally given special corrective shoes that tilted my feet in to the center so they would not be able to twist, and this went a long way in helping the issue.

When I think of my childhood (past the point where I couldn’t talk) what I remember is an overwhelming feeling of joy, and being deeply loved.  I knew I was cherished.  I wish all children could be so lucky.

Still, I never pinned a towel to my back and attempted to fly – I would have twisted an ankle, and I knew it.  I had to be careful not to hurt myself; careful what I ate, careful to stay away from the animals that other children would pet, careful not to run and have an asthma attack, careful not to twist my ankle and return to the crutches yet again.  And while that’s not what I remember when I think of my past, I wonder if some small part of my brain does; and it made me so dammed careful. 

I don’t want to be careful anymore.  I want to see what happens when I’m not.  I want to be brave.

I want to allow for the possibility that perhaps – just perhaps - I am Mighty Mouse.