At the time I was also driving around with a big piece of poster board in my truck because I'd fully intended to waive my no-self portraits rule for this project. But I could not think of a single damn thing to say. Every empty platitude I'd ever heard crowded my head and mocked me. Special kids for special parents? Welcome to Holland? Iraq? Sub-Saharan African? It'll be fine? No one should ever ever say this to a new parent. My first son was stillborn at 37 weeks because of a freak cord accident. My daughter was given an extra chromosome and a wonky heart. You cannot make that promise.
Though facile, I really do believe that. My son had endless screaming colic for 9 months straight, shellacked his entire room once with Desitin, had his forehead stitched up, and his hand superglued back together. My daughter needed to be fed 16 hours a day for the first three months of her life because we were too stubborn to rely on the feeding tube (because we'd read something about palate formation in kids with Ds), she recently doused the living room in syrup, and she had stitches in her forehead, in almost the exact same spot as her brother. And after they fixed her heart, they superglued her chest back together.
|Yes, I know our front door needs to painted.|
There is so much joy and love. So many snuggles, movie nights, and giggles. Such a long list of favorite games, bedtime stories, and songs. I like to post pictures from the park and birthday parties but I'll admit I use this space to vent. If the latter has taken up too much space here, then the failure is mine. These are the very best days.