Allie just finished her first full week of school.  She is tired, but was still able to find time on a Saturday to enjoy a playdate with a friend.  She is snuggled up beside me, resting.  I lean over because she has the faint smell of the hospital still on her head, where the sutures are. Ugh, I hate that smell, but I go back for more, hoping I can smell her shampoo over the smell from the healing suture line on her head.  Her hair covers it so well that no one at school knows "which twin" had the surgery, they have to ask.  Righty, what we call her weak hand/arm, is becoming weaker and she is beginning to ignore it more for some reason.  Her therapists both at school and privately have noticed.  They are discussing a hand splint, but are trying to decide which would be best.  She wears her "heels" to school and her PT tells her to stop wearing them because they are bad for her.  They are bad for her, I mean, she already toe walks and her achilles tendon have shrunk, making it difficult for her to pull her toes up toward her shin. She decides flip-flops are a better choice for now than tennis shoes, although tennis shoes are actually the best choice.  I get that, I do, but how do I say no when all she wants is a pair of heels like her sister has.  Well, as you can tell, I don't say no.  I get them for her and just have her wear them to church or something.  She gets it, heels are bad for her, tennis shoes are best . . . . . . but she picks the flip-flops.  A nice happy medium, a middle-ground, LIFE without too much restriction and LIFE without too much risk.  Everyday, it is a fine line that we walk.  Everyday . . . . . . .