Typical

“Yikes!  Raisin, be careful not to step on App…  Oh, honey, please don’t squish the peas, just rinse them like Mommy asked….  Eeek!  Orange, where did you find that Cheerio — the floor?  I just swept!  Give it to Mommy.   What was I saying?  Oh, Jellyman, can you make the dressing for the sala-  NOOOOO!  Raisin, you can stir, but be GENTLE!”

My throat is sore.

What Goes Around…

You know what’s the worst kind of Karma? Having a kid who’s just like you. It’s the perfect storm of emotions:

Teeth-gnashing frustration with the child.

Guilt, because now you know how your mother felt.

Bemused exasperation with your mother, because she is so frickin’ patient with her grandchild. Like, where were you 25 years ago?

Resignation, because if nobody could convince you to change your ways while you were growing up, what are the odds you’ll be able to convince your kid?

Heroes

I’ve never been pulled from a burning building by a strapping firefighter.  No Speedo-clad lifeguard has ever forced air back into my lungs.  My kidneys are both my own, not donations from selfless strangers.

The heroes in my life have been quieter, less obvious.  My mom, shooing a wasp that had stung me when I was a kid.  She chased the thing 50 yards just to make me feel better.  My dad, calming down a church youth group in the throes of a gigantic fight- it wasn’t his responsibility, but he stepped in when the other “adults” were helplessly embroiled in the fight themselves.  The perinatologist who told us Raisin’s kidneys were fine and that she absolutely did not have Down’s Syndrome (I wrote a post about this once, I think, but I can’t find it.).  Dr. Amish, whom I mocked, but who presided over the safe delivery of Apple and Orange, and who ditched some other poor mother in order to do so.  (I realize now that she probably actually is a Mennonite, which makes my mocking completely inappropriate.  She is also a splendid doctor, so let’s escalate “inappropriate” to “complete jackass.”  My only excuse is pregnancy.)  Unlikely heroes, but to my grateful heart these people appeared just as noble as the soldiers raising the flag on Iwo Jima.

This week I have a new hero, an Orthodox Jew who practices pediatric neurology.*  As you might expect, there is a Story behind our meeting with him.  The pediatrician who examined Orange in the hospital noticed that her mouth pulled to the right when she cried.  He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he couldn’t find any other reason for concern, so he recommended that we “keep an eye on it.”

Dutiful parents that we are, we mentioned it to our regular doctor at Orange and Apple’s two-week checkup.  And at two months, and at four months, and at six months.  It didn’t get better.  It didn’t get worse.  Every time, the doctor said, “keep an eye on it.”  Finally, at the nine month visit she referred us to the neurologist.

That was almost a month ago, and I spent the intervening weeks mildly fretting.  I really couldn’t get myself too worked up about it — she has been such a normal, happy baby that I couldn’t believe a little mouth curl could be a sign of some horrible hidden defect.  Still, the possibility is always there, isn’t it, lurking just below the surface of parental content?  There is always That Thing from which we won’t be able to protect our kids: The Thing against which car seats and healthy diets and sunscreen are powerless.

I refused to Google anything, and hence maintained my peace of mind until our appointment yesterday.  It was, thanks to my new hero, a blessed non-event.  Orange has this, but only that.  Although muscle weaknesses in the face can be associated with other congenital problems, often with the heart, Orange has no other symptoms.  The doctor didn’t even think it was likely to affect her speech – he said we notice it now because she’s a baby and she cries a lot.  As she progresses from crying to telling us what she wants, we probably won’t even see it anymore.

That whooshing sound you heard was 3 weeks worth of pent-up sighs rushing from my lungs.  I love this guy.

I also love that he said, “Well, here’s my card, but I’ll be surprised if you ever call me.  This is the end of the road for Orange as far as neurology goes.  It’s kind of a bummer for me — she’s awfully cute.”  Yes, she is, and now I get to enjoy her thoroughly again.  Amen.

*It is interesting, isn’t it, that we keep meeting these doctors whose profession is so very modern, and whose faith is so very traditional?  Under the circumstances, I can’t wish that we could get to know them better, but I am fascinated by the juxtaposition.

Full Circle

Last night instead of nursing babies, I nursed a beer.*

Apple and Orange are weaned.  They do so well with sippy cups, I think we could almost even get away with stashing the bottles, but I’m not going to push it until closer to their birthday.

So, huh.  I have spent the better part of the last 4 years gestating and nursing, and now it’s done – no more babies.  This parenting gig is so strange, looking forward to each new stage while mourning the end of the last one; complaining about the aches and pains of pregnancy or the breast infections of nursing only to be sad now that my babies are out in the world, independent of my body.

Don’t click this link, because the entry is really bad, but this weaning thing does bring my blog full circle.  I started writing shortly after Raisin’s first birthday, when she had just stopped nursing.  Not that I’m quitting, mind you — there’ll still be plenty of whiny nonsense here for some time to come.

*Well, actually, I drank the damn thing too fast and had to lay down.  I am such a lightweight.  One beer.  Sheesh.