::This is a guest post written by Rebekah Taussig. After you read it check out her blog and instagram @sitting_pretty::
In the last couple of weeks, my four-year-old niece (aka, My Little Pumpkin Baby), has become curious about my paralyzed legs. “Do you use that wheelchair aaaaaall day long? Why don’t you walk down the stairs?” We chat about it. “I got veeery sick when I was littler than your little sister,” I say. “I can’t walk, but I can wiggle my foot.” I can see her turning these ideas over, but I’m not sure she’s grabbing onto any of them.
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Then she gets into the markers. The vivid, ink-soaked illustrations turn into coloring the inside of her belly button — covering her body in swatches of red and blue. She turns to me. “Do you want me to color your legs, too?” she asks. “Yes!” I say. “Please.” She starts scribbling my shins — purple and yellow and blue and green. I wonder if this is the idea she’ll absorb more than the others. Both of our bodies — her little, squirmy one and my older, scarred one — warm, moving pieces of art.
