Post Script

I'm feeling a little torn about my last entry, mostly because I don't want to come off as out of line. First, because I DO appreciate the concern and curiosity of people who meet my beautiful son. And with a smile like this one, we get a lot of strangers coming over to say hi:



I understand curiosity. I'm not sure I would ask a stranger what is wrong with their child, but I certainly get why someone would wonder.

I also really don't mind answering questions about his disease. But I wish I knew HOW to answer them. In a way that was short, to the point, and un-scary to the uninformed. And at the same time, I wish I never had to answer a single question about it ever again.

And then today, I was reading a friend's blog, and clicked on one of her links. It took me to the blog of a woman who just gave birth to a baby with a cleft palate and lip. And I thought, "Well, fuck. I'm worried about explaining a mark on my son's skin?!?! What the hell is my problem?"

And so, I got over myself. At least for now.

"What happened here?"

"Did a bug bite him?"
"Is he allergic to something?"
"Is he - is that - what is that?"
"Ooh, ouchie! A spider bite?"

And this is where I stutter, and mumble something about 'kinda like an allergy' or 'he's not contagious' or 'not a bug bite'. And then I stumble over my words and try to omit certain ones which might possibly cause alarm or make you uncomfortable (disease, disorder, medical condition) all while explaining this complex thing in simple terms in 12 seconds or less. At second 13 of explaining, one of two things will happen:

1. The person's eyes will glaze over as they internally curse themself for ever asking in the first place, or
2. They start to give advice.

With option 1, I am left feeling like an annoying jackass of a mom who blabbers on and on about their child when the person was just trying to think of something to say to be polite.

With option 2, I find myself frustrated because I know the person is genuinely trying to help, but at the same time I know they are usually talking out their ass.

But it's hardly an option to have him in long sleeves all the time, to hide his spot and avoid questions. And besides, someday we'll have to explain it to HIM...so he can answer the questions others ask him and understand what this thing is that affects his body.

But hell if I know HOW to explain it. Which is why I mumble and stumble and feel like a spazz. And I also do my son and the person asking no justice, because they leave with no better understanding of why his arm has a huge red spot on it. But eloquence is not really my specialty, especially in cases where I am feeling put on the spot and maybe a teensy bit protective of the situation.

Do I OWE it to you, stranger in the store, to answer your actually-sort-of-nosy-but-totally-benign question about a spot on my son's beautiful sweet arm?

Do I HAVE to come up with something succinct and detached in response to your sad face, little old lady who probably doesn't need to be touching my baby anyhow?

Is there a response that succeeds at being short, direct, sympathetic and factual, while all the while assuring YOU, dear stranger or distant relative, that you are not in danger and my son is not contagious? And also, something that will assure you - what with your suspicious eyes and their furtive glances to the other exposed arms and legs and faces of both kids - that I didn't burn him with a cigarette, pinch him, hit him, or otherwise mar my beautiful child's perfect little arm?

And then I think...so what? So what if I don't know how to respond when someone asks? If I don't have a whole disease pared down to an 'elevator speech' that succeeds in not scaring you, nor embarassing me?

Everything about parenthood is a learning curve. It's just that I, like all parents whose child is brought to this earthly life facing any degree of challenge outside the ordinary, am having to feel this out like I am wearing blinders. When you ask me about my son, I measure my words against the weight of your expressions, gauging your pity by the angle of your frown and your confusion by the depth of the furrows in your brow. And for a second I am tempted to scrap it all and just start responding with, "It's nothing. He's fine."

And also...

...my scale is the devil. I didn't get a chance yesterday to buy a new one (what with books to read and forts to build and naps to nap), so I stepped on the ODB (Old Dirty Bastard...my scale's new name) today and HELLO! Down 2 pounds.

I blame the salt from Friday night. Bloat much?

However, in the name of WW honesty, I am not claiming that 2 pounds. I'm keeping my check in the same as it was yesterday morning on my official WI day and hoping I keep this loss and add to it for next week.

New goal: 3 pounds down next Sunday. That would mean the 2 from last week stay away and I lose 1 more.

Skidding Towards One.

My boy is almost 1. I cannot believe it's been nearly a full year since he last rolled and tumbled in my belly. Almost 12 months since the day he sent me flying into labor then stubbornly worked his way out, Super Man style. 365 days since the day he made me a mom of a boy.

Amazing.

At 11 months, he's the boy the sun rises over. He pulls up on things and stands on his own, surefooted and strong. On Valentine's Day he even took 2 or 3 steps between Darrick and me, then back, then forth, a few times in a row. He has not done it since, maybe because he doesn't have to. After all, he tears around the house on all fours, burrowing his face into the side of the couch or rubbing his head on the tile and laughing. He babbles all the time, often mimicking our inflections. His words are limited still: Mama, Dada, Nana (banana), Dod (dog). He may be saying 'Dider'(dih-dur) for sister, though we're not sure if that's our imagination or not.







He's eating solid foods and drinking from sippy cups now, though he still gets several bottles a day. Rohan took easily to finger foods, so save for a few things like yogurt, applesauce, and cottage cheese, he doesn't get much spoon-fed to him. He revels in a tray of bite-sized pieces before him, his fingers digging and diving, shoveling food into his mouth, down to speckle his belly, and onto the floor below. He LOVES food.



The other thing he loves? His sister. He is absolutely smitten with her, and she with him. There are days when I think how I would love another baby someday. And then, there are days when I see this intricate dance of siblings which my two are learning together, and I have a hard time placing baby three in the mix. Does he/she cut in? Join so that they stand in a circle, arms around each others' shoulders as they sway (reminding me of middle school dances, when the girls would inevitably end up on the dance floor together, swaying to the music and laughing in a world all their own)? Or is #3 left to sit on the bleachers, a wallflower and tag-along for life?





We're not sure yet where the next few years will lead us, and whether they will have us welcoming a third child into our lives or thanking the universe for blessing us with these two and closing this (baby/diaper/sleepless nights/pacifiers/nursing/formula) chapter for good.

Which is why I am holding on to these sweet moments of babyhood, where he is all big mitten hands and curious eyes and bedtime snuggles. I know the day will come when his silky soft skin turns rough, and callouses alter the landscape of his knees and hands and feet. I know he won't always be instantly calmed by me scooping him up to me and patting his back while we rock together. I know there will come a day when the sun does not rise just for him...a day when he no longer thinks it rises over me.







So for now I want to enjoy this sweet age. I want to stare into his baby blues and spend time pressing my face to his when he's warm from sleep. I want to hold his chubby hands as he walks next to me, still holding onto that tenuous connection that makes him think he is still a little baby and he needs me to keep him standing. I will enjoy the process of putting him to bed for every nap and bedtime that I am there for, because I want to be the last face he sees as he lets sleep close his eyes.

Truce.

I'm calling a truce with the scale this week. It's been messing with my mind, showing me down some, then up some, then steady. And while my first instinct is to throw a tantrum, I know that's not going to get me where I want to be.

But I am frustrated.

Step 1: I need a new scale this week. Have a fabulous digital that didn't cost $50+? Please share!

Step 2: Once I get that scale, I'm hopping on it once, then not again until next Sunday. This every day, once or twice a day thing is killing me mentally.

Step 3: Taking my points target down 2. I think this will jumpstart my loss, which will motivate me more.

Step 4: Move on!

BL Week 4 = Failure. But I'm not giving up.

The Sweetest Thing About A Baby Boy

It's not his big blue eyes, nor his sweet baby toes. Not his soft silken skin, his impish giggle, his big puppy-paw hands and the way they touch my cheek while he eats. It's not the way his skin smells fresh from the bath, nor the way it smells when he wakes from a nap, warm with flushed cheeks.

At least not this week, it's not.

Because this week I discovered the sweetest thing about my baby boy.

It's that one perfect, sweet, sun-kissed freckle, hidden from view at the nape of his neck by the softest whisper of honey-spun blonde hair. Because this boy, through and through, is his Daddy's son. His hands, his feet, the way he laughs easily and babbles non-stop. The curve of his cheekbones, the bend of his knee, and even the soft baby snore that can sometimes be heard coming through the monitor at night. All of it belongs to his father.

But that sweet freckle placed at the very spot where his hard skull (also from his Daddy) meets the soft bend of his neck? That is mine.