In the end, what carried her most was steady and straightforward love, the kind that says, Give me my baby, and years later, That’s my mom, born like that, and perfect to me. She learned the story of her birth from her mother. The delivery room was quiet, and so was the baby. A cry came only after a warm blanket was placed on her, and she did not like it. When her mother asked if the baby was fine, the staff hesitated. They finally said a hand was missing. Her mother asked again, Is my baby okay? They said yes. Then came the answer that shaped everything: Give me my baby. Her mother’s voice was fierce and full of love. In 1982, there were no routine scans to prepare anyone. The limb difference was a surprise, and with it came doctors who offered guesswork and worst-case predictions.
Her parents had waited two years for her. The pregnancy was brutal, what we now call hyperemesis gravidarum. A medicine for morning sickness helped her mother carry to term, and years later, guilt landed like a stone when people suggested that drug might cause birth defects. No one could prove it, but her mother carried that weight anyway. At home in Fayetteville, her parents did what they knew best: they loved her like any other child. Her mother left the police force to stay home. Her father worked six days a week at a tire plant so she would have what she needed. Friends pointed them to Shriners Hospital in Greenville; she had a care team by nine months. Twice a year, they drove down for fittings and checkups. She adored those trips. She missed a little school, stayed in a hotel, and showed off new tricks. When she wanted to play the cello in fifth grade, her dad, the prosthetist, used Velcro and duct tape to make it happen. Because of the hospital’s charity, costly prosthetics came at no cost to her family.
At home, her arm was in everyday life. Her dad had a prankster’s heart. At the mall, he would tuck her prosthetic hand into his back pocket so it stuck out and dared anyone to comment. Halloween became a playground for gallows humor. She would tell people her costume was real and then wave her little arm. Mostly, people laughed and filled her bag with extra candy.
Childhood was happy. She knew she was different, but did not feel alone until middle school. Then the mirror and the hallways got louder. She still made good grades and did everything she wanted to do, but her confidence slipped. She posed for photos to hide her arm. She wondered if anyone would love her, if marriage and kids were for someone like her. Life answered yes. She became an occupational therapist and a mother. Still, fear followed her into the delivery room. Would her son be teased because of her? Could she give him what he needed? She did not have her own mother anymore; she had died when she was eighteen. There were no online groups back then. She learned by doing. Some days she felt bold, showing the world she could do it all with one hand. Other days, she wished she could move through the supermarket without stares.
The moment that changed everything came when her first child was three. A classmate asked what happened to her arm. Before she could speak, her son stepped in front of her like a tiny guard and said, She was born like that. His voice held pride and love. Her deepest fear fell away. He did not see shame. He saw his mom. From then on, she stopped wondering whether she was enough. She already was. She had two more boys. Their house is filled with noise, everyday chaos, and a few unique phrases. Bring me my arm. Hold my nub. They watched strangers stare and heard whispers, but they also watched their mother turn those moments into lessons. She became a PTA president and a speaker on disability and inclusion. She told her boys to let people do things their way, to help only when asked, to respect differences.
As her voice grew, she began sharing her story online and wrote a comic-style children’s book, The Adventures of the One-Armed Wondermom. She wanted kids like her younger self to see a regular mom living a whole life, not just movie stars or athletes. She wanted new parents to know that their baby with ten fingers, nine or five, or none could still have a beautiful future. She often thinks about the teenager who hid her arm in photos and whispers to her with tenderness: You will be exactly who your children need. Your difference is not a weakness. It is the place where your strength lives.
