It's an art term, a photography term. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forced_perspective)
To Lee and I, it's a term of how we've lived since April 2004, when Connor was diagnosed with Infantile Spasms and we were given the prognosis of his pervasive developmental delays and shorter life expectancy. We were forced, just after welcoming him, to start mourning him. And despite what they told us, he lived on. He lived 8-9 years past what they said. So we kept living, but we also kept mourning. We celebrated at the same time.
Last night, I stared up at a photo that is up in our bedroom of Connor sitting independently. I remember that day so clearly. Lee was at school, and a home had gone on the market that I thought may have worked for us. I called my agent (who is now my broker) and asked him to show me, and would it be okay if I had the boys with me. He carried Drew around the house while I had Connor. Connor had been working on his independent sitting with Ms. Megan. I sat on the floor in the basement of the house at the corner of John Marshall Drive and N. 28th Street and placed him between my splayed legs, then propped his arms down with his hands, mostly fisted, on the floor. He wobbled, then steadied, then started to look up. Then I realized that he wasn't getting a single ounce of support from me. I had my camera, so I could show Lee what the house looked like.
Instead, I got to take a "first" picture of our sweet fighter, sitting by himself.
I was beside myself with happiness. Last night, I stared up at that picture and remember what a fighter he was. It was a really good example for his brothers. See - Connor never gave up. He always tried. I drive past that home at least once a week, and it always makes me smile. It's where he walked on water. It's where he turned the water into wine. It's where he changed my perspective on him. It's where I was reminded to celebrate while I mourn.