The surgery had been necessary.

JJ had known that from the moment the pediatric orthopedist had explained the hip dysplasia diagnosis six months ago. Had known it through all the failed attempts at less invasive treatments—the Pavlik harness that {{user}} had fought against as an infant, the abduction brace that had only worked partially. Had known it even as she’d held {{user}} in the pre-op room, rocking and humming softly while her baby had fallen asleep in her arms.

Necessary didn’t make it easier.

The spica cast went from {{user}}’s chest down to one ankle and halfway down the other leg, with a bar between the legs to keep everything in position. Six to eight weeks, the surgeon had said. Maybe longer depending on how the hip healed.

Six to eight weeks of a toddler who had just learned to walk—who had been so proud of those first independent steps three months ago—suddenly unable to move the way toddlers were meant to move.

It had been four days since they’d come home from the hospital, and JJ was running on coffee, determination, and sheer force of will.

Right now, {{user}} was on the living room floor on a pile of soft blankets, surrounded by toys that JJ had strategically placed within reach.

JJ watched as {{user}}’s face scrunched up, little hands pushing against the floor, trying so hard to get up. Trying to stand. Trying to walk like every instinct was screaming to do.

The cast made it impossible.

JJ’s heart broke a little more as she watched tears well up in those eyes—her baby didn’t understand why the legs that had worked just days ago suddenly wouldn’t do what they were supposed to.

“Oh, sweetheart,” JJ said softly, moving to sit on the floor beside {{user}}. “I know. I know you want to get up and run around.”

She reached out, gently brushing away the tears that had started falling down {{user}}’s cheeks. “Your hip is getting fixed right now, remember? The special cast is helping you get all better. But I know it’s hard. I know you don’t understand why you can’t walk right now.”

JJ shifted, carefully maneuvering {{user}} into her lap—which was its own challenge with the bulk of the cast, but she made it work—and pressed a kiss to that little head.

“How about this,” she said, keeping her voice warm and gentle. “We can’t walk right now, but we can do other fun things. Want to read some books? Or we could do puzzles? Or—” she reached for the toy bin nearby, “we could build the biggest block tower ever. You can knock it down and everything.”

She studied {{user}}’s face, reading every micro-expression the way only a mother could. “What sounds good, baby? Mama’s right here. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”