Dear Santa,

every year its the same thing. maybe next year shell take those first steps, maybe next year shell say I love you, maybe next year shell be seizure free.


but its next year and im still waiting for her to walk over and climb in my lap, still waiting on the love, still watching those seizures.


next christmas shell open those presents, shell knock ornaments off the tree on PURPOSE instead of involentarily, next christmas there will be a cure.


but its next year and were still ripping the paper for her, the movements are still uncontrolable, and there is no cure.


so when is the last year? when do we get the perfect christmas? the one without the special chair, the one she gets to do things herself. why cant we have that?