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What a feet!

My little crab boy's proved everyone wrong!


Published by: Laura Hinton
Published on: 20th September 2010

T here was nothing that could slow my son Dylan down – even in his sleep, he’d kick his little legs and squirm about under the covers. Luckily, my boyfriend Shane was just the same, never able to sit still.
Today, for example, they were whizzing about outside. Dylan was trying his hardest to ride without stabilisers and Shane raced behind, catching him just before he collapsed in a heap on the grass.
‘Again! Again!’ my son cried.
‘One more time!’ Shane smiled.
‘You’ll never get him off,’ I chuckled. He’d always treated him as his own, going on little adventures together, or kicking a football about in the garden.
And in three months, we were going to have another little boy. Life was great…
As if reading my thoughts, Shane ran over and hugged me. ‘I can’t wait to get him on a bike,’ he smiled, stroking my swollen tummy.’ Then, when he’s older, he’ll play rugby for Wales, or football for a Premiership team!’
‘We’ll need to get him walking first,’ I joked.
Only a month later, I wasn’t smiling. Shane was supposed to be home for dinner, but hadn’t phoned since he’d left home that morning with four mates.
After a busy day, I went to bed early, cursing gently. At 1.30am, there was a knock at the door. Stood in the darkness was a woman, in police uniform.
‘Miss Lear? I’m afraid I have some bad news. Could I come in?’ she asked.
A lump formed in my throat…I’d only heard this line on TV. Then the words I never dreamed I’d hear spilled out of her mouth.
Shane was dead. Killed with his friends in a car crash earlier that afternoon. Just like that, I’d lost the love of my life, the father of my unborn child. 
He’d never teach our baby to ride a bike like he had with Dylan, never have a kick-about at footie.
I was going to have to be a mother to two young boys… alone.
For the next two months, I existed on autopilot until my baby arrived on Christmas Eve.
Wrapped up all warm, I kissed him. ‘This is Shane,’ I said to my dad, who’d come to visit. ‘Named after his daddy…’ I choked up then. I was overwhelmed with love for Shane, but desperately wanted his father to be there, too.
But as I passed him to the nurse to be weighed, I noticed something. ‘What’s wrong with his legs?’ I asked. ‘He looks like a crab!’ His ankles bent inwards like crab claws and his cute little toes were all higgledy-piggledy. She hurried out the room with him.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ my dad Nigel soothed.
It turned out Shane had bilateral talipes – club feet to you and me – and quite a serious case, too.
He wouldn’t be able to walk properly. All the dreams me and Shane had had about the little action-man Dylan would have to play with vanished.
Still, he’d have been the first to make sure our son had as happy a life as possible. ‘Come on,’ I smiled, bundling Shane up and leaving hospital. ‘We’ll get through this, my little crab.’
For the next three months, tiny Shane was in and out of hospital having his legs straightened and set in plaster. It never bothered him, though. He’d gurgle happily as the nurses cooed over his gorgeous green eyes.
At six months, he had his Achilles tendons cut, and special boots fitted two months later. They went up to his knees and the soles were attached to a board – it looked like he was surfing.
Shane didn’t let it hold him back, though. He explored everywhere, half-crawling, half-shuffling on his knees, clanging and banging about the house.
I’d only taken my eyes off him for a few seconds one day, when I realised the normal crash of wooden spoons on saucepans in the front room had stopped.
‘What are you up to now?’ I muttered. ‘Shane, you okay?’
Heart racing, I rushed in to find him gone, I ran to the hall and found him halfway up the stairs! ‘How the hell…?
You’re just like your dad,’ I tutted, scooping him up. ‘He couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes, either.’
I felt proud to see him exploring but, without his boots on, he walked with his feet turned outwards, like a penguin. I worried how he’d cope at school. He already got funny looks from people in the street. Fortunately, he was too young to notice.
Despite his disability, Shane did well at school. He still had to wear boots attached to a board, but his feet were finally starting to straighten out, too.
But just when it looked like things were getting better, I got an unusual phone call from his headteacher. ‘We’ve got a…problem… with your son,’ he said. ‘We can’t stop him running.’
‘Sorry, w-what?’ I stuttered. ‘He’s got club feet!’
‘Not any more. He keeps escaping from class and sprinting around the field,’ he replied. ‘The teachers run after him, but they can’t catch up. Could you have a word, please?’
Shane running?! I remembered what his dad had said months before he’d died – he’d play rugby for Wales or football for a Premiership team. ‘It’s like you’re looking down on us, Shane,’ I giggled. ‘Our boy… sprinting? I can’t believe it.’
That night, I sat him down. ‘The teachers tell me you keep running off in lessons, is that true?’ I asked.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he sighed. ‘But I can’t help myself. I’ve never been able to do it before.’
I didn’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t want to stop him. So I persuaded the school to keep the gates shut so he’d be safe when he felt the need to stretch his legs!
I’m so proud of my super sprinter. He runs without any hint of a limp now. Who knows, maybe my little crab boy really will compete for Wales one day!
Ceri Lear, 33, Trevethin, Gwent