2012 began in a roiling black cloud of fear
and uncertainty. It ends eating the dust of a boy whose only challenge
is the establishment and its blind status-quo.
2013 will greet this family without fear. We got this. Big time.
Roll on midnight.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
Shovel the shit and shine up the saddle.
Looking back on the past month, the standouts are simple. A Dad hug for me. A frog legged, pressed-up, pre-crawl for young son. A supported stand. Perma-horsey setting. He's so nearly there, I could explode. If pride is a vice you can call me Miami, buy me a white suit and rev up the convertible.
More. Two long haul flights uninterrupted by baby bleating for three hundred plus BA passengers. Well at least MY baby was bleat free, I can't say the same for the ones who managed to score the cot seats.
I guess not being able to get a cot and getting stuck buying a seat for him was a gargantuan blessing in disguise. Guess those wee bubbas slept like shit in their thin BA travel cots while Rukai chilled in his reclined car seat, his 'command center' set up, Ice Age and Madagascar and Lion King looping on the bubba sized screen in front of him. Oops. So sorry.
Seriously, my son was the perfect passenger. Entirely unaffected by altitude and air pressure. And here I was so worried about the supposed 'structural abnormalities' those thin statistics say he's likely to have in his sinuses and ear canals that I expected full meltdown and expulsions out of both ends. I brought five changes of clothes for him on the outbound. One on the reverse. I need to go write the 'Take your stats and shove them up your ass' song now. I may have just penned the chorus.
So only three hours awake the first go and he was snoring five minutes into the return flight. He woke up when they turned the lights on for breakfast. Oh, and he woke up HAPPY. And then he ate. And then he found the ceiling panel flipping hilarious. That and the magic intercom voice. The turbulence, not so much. The plane dipped and shimmied and his eyes bugged out as if to say whatthehellwasthat while he threw some jazz hands. The first time I thought 'awww'. When he did it again I nearly peed myself laughing. I'm not sure I have cracked the visual there but I wish I had been filming.
Ok.
The reason for the visit home comes in a far less chirpy version: one life is truly beginning. One is beginning to end. Our year of turmoil has officially been wrapped in a big red bow labeled 'Dad has incurable lung cancer'. So we hopped and we scotched across an ocean for a two week visit which included Rukai's first plane trip, as much grandpa time as we could muster, Dean's cottage cheese and Lou Malnatis and Buona Beef and Portillos and store bought Christmas tchotchkes and here we are back home hoping like hell goodbye wasn't really Goodbye.
It turns and it turns and it turns. My first thought: the problem with life is it ends in death.
My second thought: thank God we went. Dad has seen his grandson doing well. That means everything to me. And that hug will never wash off. Perhaps neither will the tear stains. But I will hold that hug in my heart for the rest of my days. I will hold the conversations in my heart. My Daddy. Please let there be more hugs.
My third thought (and segue with me here): damn, British Airways trolly dollies sure wear a lot of slap on their mugs. Like theatrical pancake. Even the guys. It was like flying Air Madame Tussaud's.
I'm hanging on to thought three because once again that old mom-ism, when you most feel like crying sometimes you just have to laugh. Leave it to our magnificent squidge to provide it.
Despite our heavy hearts we have been wearing perma-smiles because mister bubba has become mini John Wayne, and is stuck on 'horsey' setting. Sit. Flail. Giggle.
I think it may have been the Chicago water. The diesel fume free air. The freak Thanksgiving heatwave. The 48 oz of greek yogurt. The vat of pretzels I bought from Kmart with my cart full of tchotchkes. Ok, maybe not those, those were MINE. But the last two weeks have given us some extraordinary developmental milestones and equal amounts of joy.
If you looked at my life from elsewhere you may say 'damn, you have been delivered a bit of a shit sandwich this year'. And we thought that. And then we look at this amazing kid who just lifts everyone around him and realize that we are staying above it because of him. Because he IS. And we are so blessed by whatever higher power has sent him our way.
We even had security people at the airport gurning at his chubby cheeks and (there's that horsey again) three foot long eyelashes.
Security people. At Heathrow. At O'hare. I was bamboozled. They even forgot to make me taste half his food the second time round. I may never go anywhere without him again.
Ok, a final few standouts.
I now know that our 'ick', or that skin condition is so hereditary that anyone 'practicing medicine' who relates it to DS hereafter can kiss my son's giraffe speckled ass. A wonderful afternoon with family cleared that one up. Not literally but I now have officially scratched that off the is-it-a-symptom-or-not list. Um, thatwouldbeno.
And the real kicker is anyone who's spent a length of time with Rukai over the past couple weeks has seen what we do. And that is nothing. That is 'virtually unaffected'. And that remains a relief. We can keep riding that particular horsey. I'll even shovel the shit and shine up the saddle.
More. Two long haul flights uninterrupted by baby bleating for three hundred plus BA passengers. Well at least MY baby was bleat free, I can't say the same for the ones who managed to score the cot seats.
I guess not being able to get a cot and getting stuck buying a seat for him was a gargantuan blessing in disguise. Guess those wee bubbas slept like shit in their thin BA travel cots while Rukai chilled in his reclined car seat, his 'command center' set up, Ice Age and Madagascar and Lion King looping on the bubba sized screen in front of him. Oops. So sorry.
Seriously, my son was the perfect passenger. Entirely unaffected by altitude and air pressure. And here I was so worried about the supposed 'structural abnormalities' those thin statistics say he's likely to have in his sinuses and ear canals that I expected full meltdown and expulsions out of both ends. I brought five changes of clothes for him on the outbound. One on the reverse. I need to go write the 'Take your stats and shove them up your ass' song now. I may have just penned the chorus.
So only three hours awake the first go and he was snoring five minutes into the return flight. He woke up when they turned the lights on for breakfast. Oh, and he woke up HAPPY. And then he ate. And then he found the ceiling panel flipping hilarious. That and the magic intercom voice. The turbulence, not so much. The plane dipped and shimmied and his eyes bugged out as if to say whatthehellwasthat while he threw some jazz hands. The first time I thought 'awww'. When he did it again I nearly peed myself laughing. I'm not sure I have cracked the visual there but I wish I had been filming.
Ok.
The reason for the visit home comes in a far less chirpy version: one life is truly beginning. One is beginning to end. Our year of turmoil has officially been wrapped in a big red bow labeled 'Dad has incurable lung cancer'. So we hopped and we scotched across an ocean for a two week visit which included Rukai's first plane trip, as much grandpa time as we could muster, Dean's cottage cheese and Lou Malnatis and Buona Beef and Portillos and store bought Christmas tchotchkes and here we are back home hoping like hell goodbye wasn't really Goodbye.
It turns and it turns and it turns. My first thought: the problem with life is it ends in death.
My second thought: thank God we went. Dad has seen his grandson doing well. That means everything to me. And that hug will never wash off. Perhaps neither will the tear stains. But I will hold that hug in my heart for the rest of my days. I will hold the conversations in my heart. My Daddy. Please let there be more hugs.
My third thought (and segue with me here): damn, British Airways trolly dollies sure wear a lot of slap on their mugs. Like theatrical pancake. Even the guys. It was like flying Air Madame Tussaud's.
I'm hanging on to thought three because once again that old mom-ism, when you most feel like crying sometimes you just have to laugh. Leave it to our magnificent squidge to provide it.
Despite our heavy hearts we have been wearing perma-smiles because mister bubba has become mini John Wayne, and is stuck on 'horsey' setting. Sit. Flail. Giggle.
I think it may have been the Chicago water. The diesel fume free air. The freak Thanksgiving heatwave. The 48 oz of greek yogurt. The vat of pretzels I bought from Kmart with my cart full of tchotchkes. Ok, maybe not those, those were MINE. But the last two weeks have given us some extraordinary developmental milestones and equal amounts of joy.
If you looked at my life from elsewhere you may say 'damn, you have been delivered a bit of a shit sandwich this year'. And we thought that. And then we look at this amazing kid who just lifts everyone around him and realize that we are staying above it because of him. Because he IS. And we are so blessed by whatever higher power has sent him our way.
We even had security people at the airport gurning at his chubby cheeks and (there's that horsey again) three foot long eyelashes.
Security people. At Heathrow. At O'hare. I was bamboozled. They even forgot to make me taste half his food the second time round. I may never go anywhere without him again.
Ok, a final few standouts.
I now know that our 'ick', or that skin condition is so hereditary that anyone 'practicing medicine' who relates it to DS hereafter can kiss my son's giraffe speckled ass. A wonderful afternoon with family cleared that one up. Not literally but I now have officially scratched that off the is-it-a-symptom-or-not list. Um, thatwouldbeno.
And the real kicker is anyone who's spent a length of time with Rukai over the past couple weeks has seen what we do. And that is nothing. That is 'virtually unaffected'. And that remains a relief. We can keep riding that particular horsey. I'll even shovel the shit and shine up the saddle.
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
There's that piece which stays behind.
Just left my son with a stranger. Feel like I'm going to make my own Rorschachs on the floor.
Sure he's met her a few times. Sure it's only to give him lunch, max an hour. For now. Sure I will collapse in a heap of relief when I go to pick him up and he's smiling and giggling and burping and shouting just like he does at home. There may even come a day when he cries when leaving her house. I will surely burn that day like I'm locked in an oven. I will surely cheer his independence. I will surely adore his spirit. Even more than I do today.
Inhale.
Talking with my NCT pals the other day we were saying how it's a dead certainty that we will have to let the babies go, over and over again all through life. To childminders, to school, to the grocery store, to teen discos, to gap years. Now having a child of my own, now about to regularly leave him to get to the business of growing up and mixing more often with other kids than with mommy et al, getting to the business of that next phase of life that doesn't involve me changing the bulk of the nappies, feeding all the vegetable sludge, teaching him to hold the cloth, the spoon, the cup, the bell, the crinklebug. Well, now I understand what my parents must have felt when I left home. Left the country. Got married. Flying flying and flying away. All the time flying. But there's that piece which stays behind. That piece that is woven into their very souls.
That one stays behind.
Exhale.
Will I one day pick him up and there he will have learned to sit up by himself at last? I cannot pretend I will not turn a shade of deepest green for a flash before the pure joy sets in. But I desperately wanted that one. I wanted it before I went back to work. I go back to work tomorrow.
Yes, thank you Sir Mick, yes, I realize you get what you need. But still.
I haven't loads more to say right now. That is enough. That is everything today. It is such a small thing but it is such a huge day.
Sure.
Sure he's met her a few times. Sure it's only to give him lunch, max an hour. For now. Sure I will collapse in a heap of relief when I go to pick him up and he's smiling and giggling and burping and shouting just like he does at home. There may even come a day when he cries when leaving her house. I will surely burn that day like I'm locked in an oven. I will surely cheer his independence. I will surely adore his spirit. Even more than I do today.
Inhale.
Talking with my NCT pals the other day we were saying how it's a dead certainty that we will have to let the babies go, over and over again all through life. To childminders, to school, to the grocery store, to teen discos, to gap years. Now having a child of my own, now about to regularly leave him to get to the business of growing up and mixing more often with other kids than with mommy et al, getting to the business of that next phase of life that doesn't involve me changing the bulk of the nappies, feeding all the vegetable sludge, teaching him to hold the cloth, the spoon, the cup, the bell, the crinklebug. Well, now I understand what my parents must have felt when I left home. Left the country. Got married. Flying flying and flying away. All the time flying. But there's that piece which stays behind. That piece that is woven into their very souls.
That one stays behind.
Exhale.
Will I one day pick him up and there he will have learned to sit up by himself at last? I cannot pretend I will not turn a shade of deepest green for a flash before the pure joy sets in. But I desperately wanted that one. I wanted it before I went back to work. I go back to work tomorrow.
Yes, thank you Sir Mick, yes, I realize you get what you need. But still.
I haven't loads more to say right now. That is enough. That is everything today. It is such a small thing but it is such a huge day.
Sure.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Dinner wars.
After not being able to keep any food down yesterday, Rukai has just won the Oscar for most picky baby on the face of the earth. Today's dinner menu:
2 oz of fresh carrot juice = yum yum go mama, more please
2 spoons of packet chicken dinner = tantrum, I don't want savory thankyouverymuch
3 spoons of carrot/swede mashed up = tantrum, I don't want solid veg thankyouverymuch
1/2 spoon of carrot/swede mashed up, disguised with fruit puree = straight back out and are you fricking KIDDING me?
The rest of the fruit puree = Ha ha mama, I win.
1/2 an organic snack hoop. Most in his mouth this time. Ha ha baby, I win this round.
1 teaspoon of Philadelphia cream cheese. Straight. A huge hit. If you won't take your milk, I'll get your dairy in you somehow. Score two for me.
2 sips of heavily diluted apple/blackcurrant juice.
It's all staying in. What's coming out is one helluva stubborn streak.
Bartender!
2 oz of fresh carrot juice = yum yum go mama, more please
2 spoons of packet chicken dinner = tantrum, I don't want savory thankyouverymuch
3 spoons of carrot/swede mashed up = tantrum, I don't want solid veg thankyouverymuch
1/2 spoon of carrot/swede mashed up, disguised with fruit puree = straight back out and are you fricking KIDDING me?
The rest of the fruit puree = Ha ha mama, I win.
1/2 an organic snack hoop. Most in his mouth this time. Ha ha baby, I win this round.
1 teaspoon of Philadelphia cream cheese. Straight. A huge hit. If you won't take your milk, I'll get your dairy in you somehow. Score two for me.
2 sips of heavily diluted apple/blackcurrant juice.
It's all staying in. What's coming out is one helluva stubborn streak.
Bartender!
Friday, 19 October 2012
You can't cure baby sick with bacon.
It all started when Bubba got blasted by a big bad blockup. Top end. Stuffiest of all stuffy noses, the poor boy was snuffling and squidging around so long a couple nights ago we went up to right things and found ourselves with a very warm headed unhappy little man. We, the old folks downstairs, charging up to fix our baby. Our boy's not well. We behaved like parents in an urgent situation and that, to me, was a very strange experience.
Of course we've been behaving like parents for eight months now but it's a bit like getting that first car / credit card / apartment / house / bottle of Jack Daniels. You think to yourself 'hey I'm an adult now, this is not kid stuff.' But when the stuff that is not kid stuff IS kid stuff, well, that is when you have truly arrived, baby.
So bubbo snuffaluffagus was unwell and we did our best to fix him. We seem to have done a pretty miserable job of it, which I discovered today, as two minutes post-breakfast, half the contents of said breakfast were soaking into the carpeting like a Rorschach blot and snuffly boy was screaming blue Jesus.
The mommy antenna went up full height and I admit the urge to clean up the puddle first was a bit strong. But no, baby first. He's not only unwell, he's a bit freaked out at that new sensation and I have to find a way to fix it. How's about a wiped face, a kiss on the too-hot-for-my-liking forehead, fresh nappy and a new top. Check. Now let's get him resting a bit on the sofa. Carefully drape a blanket under him in case the rest of breakfast comes to the party. Cover him up with another blanket. Finally open up that Calpol that's been staring me down for eight months and spoon a bit in him. Good, good. I'm mommy-ing. I'm fixing the ick.
He conks out. I feel triumphant. Until he wakes up after a brief nap and I go to cuddle him by putting him on my shoulder. A gurking sound pierces my eardrum like a chisel and as I whizz him around, there we now officially have an empty stomach and more Rorschach on the other side of the floor. I'm not sure if it looked like an octopus, a racecar or three blooming coins in a fountain but it plain as day looked like a fresh puddle of puke I was going to need to mop up. He goes back to the sofa and I refill that bowl of water.
Scrub scrub. I'm mommying again. He is quietly watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and sucking on a muslin cloth. I am wondering how in the hell I'll get some fluids in him if it keeps coming back up. How do I comfort him if he's not comfy cuddling in the newborn hold and the shoulder plank empties his guts?
I check him again and he's slowly becoming not so grey faced, forehead a bit cooler. Thank you Calpol. Having consulted Doctor Google again I see he could very well be quite perky even though he's got an obvious tummy bug and it's only if he's seriously out of sorts that it's time to panic. And lo and behold he's seeming to bore and crabbing to get on the floor again. Five minutes after I dump the bowl in the sink, I look down and he's rolled to that same tummy that just returned breakfast and I'm thinking first: 'dear lord, please don't puke on your playmat', and second: 'you sure do bounce back quick. Tough as old boots'. He's clearly on the fritz and there he is going roly poly. Pride.
Yet they say WOMEN are confusing.
He is now full of a half bottle of milk and a couple crumbs of rice cake and napping again, the sleepiness the only indication at the moment that he's off piste. I think he's ok for now but I may just fill that bowl again to be on the safe side.
The real shame of it all? Unlike a hangover, you can't cure baby sick with bacon.
_____
In other news, this is officially the last day of my maternity leave. Nine months gone and it's time to enter a new phase of life and get back to work - only part time til year's end, thank god. I would sink like a boulder if I dived straight in. Baby steps. The adult kind.
Our childminder has been selected. We are getting close to the first full day with her and I'm growing new greys by the minute just thinking about it. I am feeling melancholy but more than relieved that compressed working hours are on the horizon and Rukai and I will have one weekday together to keep his development on track. We are on such a roll and seeing that slow - worse, cease - would break me like Uncle Pecos' old guitar string. Crambone.
To be at this point after an eight months which started in the wilderness, smothered with such worry and concern, now feels a bit like a quiet miracle.
Rukai is coming on still with no issues, firmly at the tail end of normal where milestones are concerned. Surrounded by about a dozen other kids the other day at baby singsong I saw that he isn't doing anything any differently than they are. He may be a bit on the late end but by god he's doing it.
He's now rolling over regularly and with ease both ways. He's grabbing and trying to shake the very color off his toys. He babbled an accidental mama yesterday which set me alight and raised a flock of butterflies in my own belly. He is so strong and rambunctious, so tenacious and stubborn. So much a perfect combination of me and his Daddy it is just untrue.
So today I have stuffed my worry in a cab to Heathrow, checked it in on a flight to Don'tLetTheDoorHitYa and sent it packing. It may find its way back but in the meantime we three are going somewhere much sunnier. I'll send a postcard.
Of course we've been behaving like parents for eight months now but it's a bit like getting that first car / credit card / apartment / house / bottle of Jack Daniels. You think to yourself 'hey I'm an adult now, this is not kid stuff.' But when the stuff that is not kid stuff IS kid stuff, well, that is when you have truly arrived, baby.
So bubbo snuffaluffagus was unwell and we did our best to fix him. We seem to have done a pretty miserable job of it, which I discovered today, as two minutes post-breakfast, half the contents of said breakfast were soaking into the carpeting like a Rorschach blot and snuffly boy was screaming blue Jesus.
The mommy antenna went up full height and I admit the urge to clean up the puddle first was a bit strong. But no, baby first. He's not only unwell, he's a bit freaked out at that new sensation and I have to find a way to fix it. How's about a wiped face, a kiss on the too-hot-for-my-liking forehead, fresh nappy and a new top. Check. Now let's get him resting a bit on the sofa. Carefully drape a blanket under him in case the rest of breakfast comes to the party. Cover him up with another blanket. Finally open up that Calpol that's been staring me down for eight months and spoon a bit in him. Good, good. I'm mommy-ing. I'm fixing the ick.
He conks out. I feel triumphant. Until he wakes up after a brief nap and I go to cuddle him by putting him on my shoulder. A gurking sound pierces my eardrum like a chisel and as I whizz him around, there we now officially have an empty stomach and more Rorschach on the other side of the floor. I'm not sure if it looked like an octopus, a racecar or three blooming coins in a fountain but it plain as day looked like a fresh puddle of puke I was going to need to mop up. He goes back to the sofa and I refill that bowl of water.
Scrub scrub. I'm mommying again. He is quietly watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and sucking on a muslin cloth. I am wondering how in the hell I'll get some fluids in him if it keeps coming back up. How do I comfort him if he's not comfy cuddling in the newborn hold and the shoulder plank empties his guts?
I check him again and he's slowly becoming not so grey faced, forehead a bit cooler. Thank you Calpol. Having consulted Doctor Google again I see he could very well be quite perky even though he's got an obvious tummy bug and it's only if he's seriously out of sorts that it's time to panic. And lo and behold he's seeming to bore and crabbing to get on the floor again. Five minutes after I dump the bowl in the sink, I look down and he's rolled to that same tummy that just returned breakfast and I'm thinking first: 'dear lord, please don't puke on your playmat', and second: 'you sure do bounce back quick. Tough as old boots'. He's clearly on the fritz and there he is going roly poly. Pride.
Yet they say WOMEN are confusing.
He is now full of a half bottle of milk and a couple crumbs of rice cake and napping again, the sleepiness the only indication at the moment that he's off piste. I think he's ok for now but I may just fill that bowl again to be on the safe side.
The real shame of it all? Unlike a hangover, you can't cure baby sick with bacon.
_____
In other news, this is officially the last day of my maternity leave. Nine months gone and it's time to enter a new phase of life and get back to work - only part time til year's end, thank god. I would sink like a boulder if I dived straight in. Baby steps. The adult kind.
Our childminder has been selected. We are getting close to the first full day with her and I'm growing new greys by the minute just thinking about it. I am feeling melancholy but more than relieved that compressed working hours are on the horizon and Rukai and I will have one weekday together to keep his development on track. We are on such a roll and seeing that slow - worse, cease - would break me like Uncle Pecos' old guitar string. Crambone.
To be at this point after an eight months which started in the wilderness, smothered with such worry and concern, now feels a bit like a quiet miracle.
Rukai is coming on still with no issues, firmly at the tail end of normal where milestones are concerned. Surrounded by about a dozen other kids the other day at baby singsong I saw that he isn't doing anything any differently than they are. He may be a bit on the late end but by god he's doing it.
He's now rolling over regularly and with ease both ways. He's grabbing and trying to shake the very color off his toys. He babbled an accidental mama yesterday which set me alight and raised a flock of butterflies in my own belly. He is so strong and rambunctious, so tenacious and stubborn. So much a perfect combination of me and his Daddy it is just untrue.
So today I have stuffed my worry in a cab to Heathrow, checked it in on a flight to Don'tLetTheDoorHitYa and sent it packing. It may find its way back but in the meantime we three are going somewhere much sunnier. I'll send a postcard.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Baby planking.
Well, I've done it. I've gone and booked a meeting with a childminder because oh-my-god-i-cannot-believe-it, nine months have come and gone and I have to go back to work in a few weeks. The days of living in my jammies and rolling around on the floor with Rukai are going, and I will need to make conversation about other things than bodily functions, milestones and sleep patterns. I will need to park my silly faces until I get home. I will have to use Outlook again. Go to meetings. Dig out my work notebook and try desperately to read through what I was working on, if I can see past the many doodles I made in the later days of pregnancy when my mind was adrift in anticipation and worry. I think my new doodles will consist of little more than to-do lists. I cannot live these days without lists. I truly cannot remember anything aside from squidge requirements. That is all.
Oh dear. I think re-entry is going to sting.
But back to the childminder selection. I can honestly say this is a bigger decision than the one I took to move to England in the first place, largely because adult me can handle bad decision making (not that the move was a bad idea, but HAD it been...) 7-1/2 month old Rukai cannot. Like everything else we have done with and for him, we have to get this right. I think this is where that maternal instinct and the old 'gut feeling' will kick into overdrive. It's been a remarkable discovery, since before I had a child the only gut instinct I had regularly was the massive belly ache after an overly spicy curry or football sized burrito. This maternal thing is just a bit supernatural. Now that I think about it, if I ever grow those magical eyes in the back of my head I'll have to sell myself to MI6 or the CIA and save the world while I'm keeping Rukai from bashing his head on table corners and such.
I wonder when the time will come that this decision-making-about-the-bubba will stop feeling like brain surgery? Stop feeling like 'if I don't get this right, they will take away my mommy credentials and send me off to summer camp to climb trees and learn underwater basketweaving.' I suspect it's easier when you have more than one kid - instead of worrying so much about what you are doing with kid number 1, you have sudden expertise with kid number 2 because you've done it already. The stuff that is so worrying right now would go in the background for kid number 1 because the littler the person is, the more fragile. The more fragile, the more attention you have to give and the more attention you have to give...the more wine.
Yes, that is also an essential part of the big picture. Like many other things I did not really understand before I became a mother, I 'get it' now. And although wine is a four letter word, it is a socially acceptable four letter word that prevents overfrayed nerves and utterance of other less acceptable and dangerously repeatable four letter words. So essentially, a nice glass of wine will keep Rukai's first word from being 'shit'. That's not to say he doesn't find it at around word number ten or eleven but if we don't dare to dream, where will we be?
In other news, our little man is coming along like gangbusters since we started him on solids. The floppiness is fading, and he is now - for lack of a better description - 'baby planking' when I pick him up and raise him over my head. That little neck is strengthening day by day and to our delight he is well and truly doing everything he should be doing, only just the littlest bit later than his NCT pals. To have this group of friends has been a godsend to both of us - to him for familiarity and to me for great friendship and to be able to gauge where his development is against ordinary children.
When describing his latest acquired skills on a recent visit with the health visitor, I detected the slightest hint of surprise as if to say 'I can't believe he's doing that already. He shouldn't be able to. Most babies with Down's syndrome can't do that at this age.'
Yes, yes, yes. But we have determined already that he is not MOST, my good woman. And I truly think she knows that. This is why it is only a hint of surprise followed by a slight grin and more note writing. Ok, good good. She gets me. More progress.
As each day goes by I see more of a grit, a determination, a stubborn streak, a warrior. Although sometimes I fret, these days I am not afraid of my son's ability to soar.
The only thing I fear is getting back on that cursed Central Line again. So I guess at the end of return-to-work-day-1 it will be for bubba: bath, bottle, bed. For mommy: cuddles, watch him dream. Then dinner. Then wine. Yes.
Oh dear. I think re-entry is going to sting.
But back to the childminder selection. I can honestly say this is a bigger decision than the one I took to move to England in the first place, largely because adult me can handle bad decision making (not that the move was a bad idea, but HAD it been...) 7-1/2 month old Rukai cannot. Like everything else we have done with and for him, we have to get this right. I think this is where that maternal instinct and the old 'gut feeling' will kick into overdrive. It's been a remarkable discovery, since before I had a child the only gut instinct I had regularly was the massive belly ache after an overly spicy curry or football sized burrito. This maternal thing is just a bit supernatural. Now that I think about it, if I ever grow those magical eyes in the back of my head I'll have to sell myself to MI6 or the CIA and save the world while I'm keeping Rukai from bashing his head on table corners and such.
I wonder when the time will come that this decision-making-about-the-bubba will stop feeling like brain surgery? Stop feeling like 'if I don't get this right, they will take away my mommy credentials and send me off to summer camp to climb trees and learn underwater basketweaving.' I suspect it's easier when you have more than one kid - instead of worrying so much about what you are doing with kid number 1, you have sudden expertise with kid number 2 because you've done it already. The stuff that is so worrying right now would go in the background for kid number 1 because the littler the person is, the more fragile. The more fragile, the more attention you have to give and the more attention you have to give...the more wine.
Yes, that is also an essential part of the big picture. Like many other things I did not really understand before I became a mother, I 'get it' now. And although wine is a four letter word, it is a socially acceptable four letter word that prevents overfrayed nerves and utterance of other less acceptable and dangerously repeatable four letter words. So essentially, a nice glass of wine will keep Rukai's first word from being 'shit'. That's not to say he doesn't find it at around word number ten or eleven but if we don't dare to dream, where will we be?
In other news, our little man is coming along like gangbusters since we started him on solids. The floppiness is fading, and he is now - for lack of a better description - 'baby planking' when I pick him up and raise him over my head. That little neck is strengthening day by day and to our delight he is well and truly doing everything he should be doing, only just the littlest bit later than his NCT pals. To have this group of friends has been a godsend to both of us - to him for familiarity and to me for great friendship and to be able to gauge where his development is against ordinary children.
When describing his latest acquired skills on a recent visit with the health visitor, I detected the slightest hint of surprise as if to say 'I can't believe he's doing that already. He shouldn't be able to. Most babies with Down's syndrome can't do that at this age.'
Yes, yes, yes. But we have determined already that he is not MOST, my good woman. And I truly think she knows that. This is why it is only a hint of surprise followed by a slight grin and more note writing. Ok, good good. She gets me. More progress.
As each day goes by I see more of a grit, a determination, a stubborn streak, a warrior. Although sometimes I fret, these days I am not afraid of my son's ability to soar.
The only thing I fear is getting back on that cursed Central Line again. So I guess at the end of return-to-work-day-1 it will be for bubba: bath, bottle, bed. For mommy: cuddles, watch him dream. Then dinner. Then wine. Yes.
Monday, 24 September 2012
Look mommy, I made a rhombus.
Summer is officially over and Rukai has now been on and returned from his first vacation. Both were a bit of a washout for us oldies but since hes a newbie he didn't really notice. Then too, I guess there's no need to see anything past your big toe if your feet are amongst the most interesting things on the planet. We could've taken him to the Premier Inn down the road and he wouldn't have known any different. I also guess it was a nice change of scenery to see all the rain pissing down from a different living room than the one he's used to.
During the trip we really kicked in the new food sampling into overdrive. I started out at home with the best of intentions, making fresh purees from fresh vegetables. This quickly turned into frozen vegetables, largely because I couldn't be arsed to peel another carrot. But then I hit the baby food aisle at Asda and have never looked back. It just seemed to take up far too much bonding time to be mashing up all that shit that he gobbles up with equal zeal regardless of how it's prepared. As long as there isn't any stuff I can't identify in the jar, bring it on. It didn't help all that time spent boiling and mashing things brought back memories of all that pumping I did when I could've been down on the floor playing roly poly with him. I can't get those days back and wasn't about to lose any more. So home made is just not worth the time, but of course I feel a bit of guilt losing another part of the Master Plan.
To be fair, said Master Plan includes a huge check from the National Lottery but until that happens we'll have to make do and resort to plan - what is it now - say, Q or R. If it makes any difference to soften the guilt, I buy the organic stuff. In all honesty I don't buy it because it's organic. Oh, no. It's because it's called Hipp Organic, which all you bright sparks will quickly identify spells Hipp O. Hippo. Divine! And that is all Dirty Water Pool. Which makes it required shopping.
Now, with all this talk about eating, alas I must return again to that old gem, poop. We have entered an entirely new phase of understanding human physiology. And chemistry. And geometry. It's like going back to high school with a drooling farty thing as your teacher. Then again, I think I had a few teachers like that in high school.
But I digress again. (Surprise!) Let's move on.
While we were sampling all these new Hippo foods, young son got a bit blocked up. Like for about three days. So I consulted Doctor Google and it seemed perfectly common and nothing to worry about so we waited for the blowout. It was more of a damp squib but opened up entirely new horizons.
T's changing him one day and the conversation goes about like this:
Me: Please tell me he pooped.
T: Heeeeeey, he pooped a triangle.
Me: A triangle? (Step closer to have a look) I think it looks more like a pyramid. How tidy. But P.U.
Few hours later, I'm changing him this time and it goes about like this:
Me: Heeeeeey we got an oval this time. Kinda looks like a trilobite. Ew.
(T looks over my shoulder)
Me: Kid's a genius. He's pooping geometry. Next it'll be a pooallelogram. Or a crapezoid. Or maybe even a rhombus.
And so we're back on track. He's eating like a horse, and will eat just about anything, although a recent sample of sweet potato and beef has caused an unidentifiable tantrum even though he eats it. Can't decide whether he thinks it tastes like crap or if the texture is too gloopy after his breakfast porridge. Then too, maybe he's moved beyond the flavor and will next be handing me the menu from the local Chinese while pointing at the shrimp toast. I wonder if you could puree that?
___
On another note, because it's just too ridiculous to omit...
This afternoon I finally got the report in the mail from our mid June meeting with the Amazing Patronizing Genetic Counselor. Not only has she taken three months to merely quote scripture in a typical and all-too-familiar NHS ass covering exercise, but she also completely dodged my request to learn whether there is a more detailed test result for Rukai in the records somewhere. The prize winning best of the nonsense she's written:
"You explained that you and your husband are very happy to get to know your son as an individual."
Are you fucking kidding me? Do ya think? Oh my lord. Please remove 'counselor' from your title because if you ever 'counseled' me on anything I think I'd lose the will to live.
Never mind. Rant over for now. I 'm gonna go look for a sphere.
During the trip we really kicked in the new food sampling into overdrive. I started out at home with the best of intentions, making fresh purees from fresh vegetables. This quickly turned into frozen vegetables, largely because I couldn't be arsed to peel another carrot. But then I hit the baby food aisle at Asda and have never looked back. It just seemed to take up far too much bonding time to be mashing up all that shit that he gobbles up with equal zeal regardless of how it's prepared. As long as there isn't any stuff I can't identify in the jar, bring it on. It didn't help all that time spent boiling and mashing things brought back memories of all that pumping I did when I could've been down on the floor playing roly poly with him. I can't get those days back and wasn't about to lose any more. So home made is just not worth the time, but of course I feel a bit of guilt losing another part of the Master Plan.
To be fair, said Master Plan includes a huge check from the National Lottery but until that happens we'll have to make do and resort to plan - what is it now - say, Q or R. If it makes any difference to soften the guilt, I buy the organic stuff. In all honesty I don't buy it because it's organic. Oh, no. It's because it's called Hipp Organic, which all you bright sparks will quickly identify spells Hipp O. Hippo. Divine! And that is all Dirty Water Pool. Which makes it required shopping.
Now, with all this talk about eating, alas I must return again to that old gem, poop. We have entered an entirely new phase of understanding human physiology. And chemistry. And geometry. It's like going back to high school with a drooling farty thing as your teacher. Then again, I think I had a few teachers like that in high school.
But I digress again. (Surprise!) Let's move on.
While we were sampling all these new Hippo foods, young son got a bit blocked up. Like for about three days. So I consulted Doctor Google and it seemed perfectly common and nothing to worry about so we waited for the blowout. It was more of a damp squib but opened up entirely new horizons.
T's changing him one day and the conversation goes about like this:
Me: Please tell me he pooped.
T: Heeeeeey, he pooped a triangle.
Me: A triangle? (Step closer to have a look) I think it looks more like a pyramid. How tidy. But P.U.
Few hours later, I'm changing him this time and it goes about like this:
Me: Heeeeeey we got an oval this time. Kinda looks like a trilobite. Ew.
(T looks over my shoulder)
Me: Kid's a genius. He's pooping geometry. Next it'll be a pooallelogram. Or a crapezoid. Or maybe even a rhombus.
And so we're back on track. He's eating like a horse, and will eat just about anything, although a recent sample of sweet potato and beef has caused an unidentifiable tantrum even though he eats it. Can't decide whether he thinks it tastes like crap or if the texture is too gloopy after his breakfast porridge. Then too, maybe he's moved beyond the flavor and will next be handing me the menu from the local Chinese while pointing at the shrimp toast. I wonder if you could puree that?
___
On another note, because it's just too ridiculous to omit...
This afternoon I finally got the report in the mail from our mid June meeting with the Amazing Patronizing Genetic Counselor. Not only has she taken three months to merely quote scripture in a typical and all-too-familiar NHS ass covering exercise, but she also completely dodged my request to learn whether there is a more detailed test result for Rukai in the records somewhere. The prize winning best of the nonsense she's written:
"You explained that you and your husband are very happy to get to know your son as an individual."
Are you fucking kidding me? Do ya think? Oh my lord. Please remove 'counselor' from your title because if you ever 'counseled' me on anything I think I'd lose the will to live.
Never mind. Rant over for now. I 'm gonna go look for a sphere.
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