Ankle-foot orthotics are my nemesis. Day after day, I search the floor to find them (why must they come in twos) and loosen their Velcro straps. I adjust my daughter’s socks and stretch her pointed feet and tight tendons into the prescribed angle. Re-thread the Velcro, and tighten. Like a horse holding its breath for a looser saddle, my daughter points her toes and curls her arches to keep her heels from their plastic cradle, and we must adjust the straps again. Then we find and put on her shoes, a challenging task with a braced foot. Next the wheelchair harness, brushing her hair, her teeth, putting on her coat and gloves. My daughter is eight and there’s no reason to think she will gain the ability to do these things for herself, so every morning (except some lazy, bed-cocooned Saturdays) we perform our dual struggle, in which her short tendons are stretched, and my selfish will is bent.

What parenting a child with severe disabilities has taught me about dependence.