Expounding

Ever since I posted about my re-emerging battle with the impotent rage of unfairness and reading the thoughtful and wonderful comments that were left by you, dear readers, I have been giving more thought to the question of why the why still bothers me so.

It is an eternal question, one that I have fought with before.  I’ve read numerous articles about bad things happening to good people.  I’ve heard the, “don’t ask ‘why me’, ask ‘why not me’?” and I still don’t really understand what that has to do with the price of grief these days.  None of these things really helped me get a final answer – they just gave a short lived high of compassion and understanding.

Of course, this is because no article can tell me about why I feel the way that I do. They can suggest reasons or solutions, wrap them up in helpful bullet-point lists with uplifting words and uses of exclamation marks.  They cannot substitute for me doing the necessary mental gymnastics of really sitting down with myself and having a conversation.  Which I have finally done. Here’s the transcript.

Me: Why does this continue to bother you?

Me: I can’t think about it without feeling that it is all terribly unfair.

Me: You sound like you’re whining. Life isn’t fair, right?

Me: Of course I’m whining. Perceived lack of fairness is one of my greatest pet peeves.  To me, the “life isn’t fair” screed only applies to the little things like parking spaces, bad hair days and a genetic predisposition to thighs that rub together.  It shouldn’t apply to the big things in life, especially when I’ve been taught so often that I can accomplish anything.

Me: So how is it unfair, though?

Me: Because I can’t for the life of me figure out what makes them so special that they get to be normal and happy and ignorant and I get infertility and miscarriages and dread.  I think it’s the part where they get to act like getting pregnant without help and then have the baby like it’s all normal and good that drives me crazy the most.

Me: That’s because it is normal to them.  It’s normal to most people in the world.  You’ve been graced, for whatever, reason with the unnormal version and get to obsess over your inclusion in this illustrious group for the whole world to read.

Me: And, it’s my inclusion in this group that I cannot explain.  I can’t explain it going backwards looking at my past misdeeds, I can’t explain it now and I probably won’t be able to explain it going forward.  And I want an explanation because I can’t stand thinking that it is just random or bad luck.

Me: You’re going to need to work on that because unless you become omniscient, you’re never going to know why it happened to you.  And, I would like to posit that maybe that’s ok.  Maybe it doesn’t make you a lesser person than those ladies, maybe it doesn’t make them luckier or more blessed.  Maybe it just is.

Me: Damn, damn, damn.  That is way too esoteric for me.

The Boy Who Lived

On the way to hospital at 4:45am the day of Rex’s induction, I remember that I didn’t feel him moving at all.  This did not send me into a panic.  You see, this was what I thought was going to happen.  I knew that we would get to the hospital, they would put on the doppler and the baby would be gone because that is the kind of shit that always happened to us.   We always got the short end of the fertility stick, so why not have this epic final fail to add to our list?

I thought about mentioning his lack of movement to the L&D nurses, but I figured, why cause drama before the real drama would happen? I climbed in the bed, and still nothing.  While waiting for the nurse to strap on the monitors, I was mentally preparing for the silence that would fill the room, the look of regret on the nurse’s face, the moment of acceptance that our baby was gone.

Standasarus Rex

You can guess what happened next.  Of course, the room was filled with the sound of his heart beating away like a metronome just like it was supposed to.  I was momentarily relieved, but by no means was I ready to declare victory.  The rest of my labor was a bit of a blur once I had the epidural.  I spent a great deal of time begging Mr. X for ice chips since I was constantly parched.  I would have easily killed for a swig of the Diet Coke he had with his lunch but he knew enough to keep it out of my sight.  Before I knew it, it was 5pm and I was pushing – still expecting the worst, but figuring that I might as well get it over with.

At 5:59pm, Rex was born, alive and perfect in every way.   And that’s when things got even more surreal because I was officially outside of my realm of believability.  I could have believed if something terrible had happened.  I could not believe that something terrible didn’t.

I was simply shocked by the fact that I had a beautiful, healthy and very much alive baby and I was now expected to know what the hell to do with him.  The nurses all acted as if this was the most natural thing in the world (because, duh, to them it is) and here I was thinking this is actually happening and I don’t know what to do.  I also thought how incredibly ungrateful I must be to be having these feelings when I knew many women who had had that terrible outcome.   I should be thrilled to have a normal, healthy baby.

In hindsight,  I wish I had reached out to someone in that moment to explain how lost I felt, how utterly confused I was that the universe in its infinite wisdom had decided us to bless us with this unbelievably normal outcome.  I wish I had asked what happens next? How do I deal with it? What do I do with this child? How do I accept that he’s here and I’m going to have to take care of him?  How do I not feel so incredibly awful about having these feelings?

I didn’t, though. I was afraid to ask these nurses who knew so much more than I did about my child. I was afraid to ask my OB who while extremely wonderful and confident was also extremely busy and harried.  I didn’t want to ask Mr. X because I didn’t want to hear that he was probably thinking the same things.  I wanted to go along with the world’s expectation that we were thrilled to have a healthy baby.  I was happy, but in a bemused-how-on-earth-did-I-get-this kind of way.

It took me a long time to get to a good place and accept all that had changed.  I had to be very honest with myself about what I was feeling, be it good, bad, very bad and not allow myself to feel judgment for those thoughts.  I had to recognize that I wasn’t letting anyone down, most of all myself, by having these feelings and that I was not being ungrateful for having Rex – I was being realistic about how it is to parent a newborn.

Once I hit those milestones, I was finally able to feel the  utter and indescribable thankfulness that he was the boy who lived.

My (So-Called) Purpose Driven Life

If you had asked me before we had Rex whether or not having a child would give my life purpose, I would have answered with a resounding YES with multiple exclamation points.  But, if you would have looked closer, the yes would have had a giant asterisk next to it and underneath, in small print, it would have read: “Note that above statement is based upon experiences of others and the author in fact has absolutely no clue whether or not this will be the case for her.”

Via Creative Commons by Steve Snodgrass

Now that we’ve had the much awaited and longed for and wanted child, I feel more of a completeness than I have in quite a while.  But, utter and total fulfillment? Nope.  And I want you to know that this is ok.  For you and for me.

But, it got me to thinking.  What would make my life fulfilling because apparently, being a mom and a wife and a lawyer is not completely doing it.  Which lead to the even more loaded question of, what is my life’s purpose?  Perhaps due to the cosmos’ perverse sense of humor, it was exactly last week in fact that I spent the better part of four days meeting with many different people who all had found a very specific purpose for their life.  While I didn’t share this particular purpose, I still was in awe of the fact that they had found something that they believed in and they dedicated their lives to it.

I know women who feel that way about mothering.  I know women who feel that way about lawyering.  I’m sure there are even who feel this way about being a wife.  But, what would make me feel this way?  What would make me go to the ends of the earth to know or do because it is my purpose in life? Unfortunately for you, dear Reader, I’m going to try to figure it out here.

In advance of this intense navel gazing, I give you a pass to skip this entire series of posts.  Really, don’t thank me.  Go find your own purpose.  Better yet, tell me about it when you’re done.  I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

Confessions of An Introvert Mom

I am the introverted daughter of a librarian.  This means that I like books more than people.   (Not you, of course. Just everyone else.)

 

jbwan via Flickr Creative Commons

Being introverted also means that I require a lot of time to myself to recharge.  A lot of time.  If you are thinking that this is likely incompatible with an infant, you are correct (see why I still prefer you to books?).  In fact, it seems like I require even more time than I did before Rex was born which is probably a direct proportional response to the amount of time that Rex deserves and requires.

Because Rex, being human and all, is a person who requires heavy interaction and entertainment, two things that easily drain my battery faster than your average person to person contact.  I’ve never been good at entertaining someone else for long periods of time – even adults! So, entertaining a baby for long stretches has been really hard for me.  Rex, bless his heart, is becoming every day more and more of a joy to entertain, though.  No adults I know give me such huge smiles or giggle at the simple things like he does.  Granted, very few would also probably let me tickle them.

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I can always tell when I haven’t had enough me time.  I begin to get cranky, even with Mr. X’s company.  I feel physically and emotionally exhausted and want just to go somewhere quiet for a while to be alone.  Of course, with a baby, that’s not always feasible.  I refuse to short Rex time with me because of my need for ‘me-time’ but negotiating away me time is also not an option.  The solution?

I take it where I can find it.  This has meant getting creative about fitting it into my day, especially since I’m still working to pay for those diapers and the SimiCrack (not to mention socking away cash for the ballooning college education expenses).

I’ve become more disciplined about how I spend the time that I do have allocated.  Gone are the days of aimlessly surfing the net.  I read, sew or (gasp!) work on my book (aren’t we all?).  If I find that I’m feeling particularly drained in a day and don’t have any long stretch available in the near term, I will take a quickie 5 minute break and read a trashy novel.  Works like a charm every time.

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I’ve also allowed Mr. X to help me.  Yes, you read that right.  I’ve come to realize that more often than not, I was not letting him help mainly because it was so much easier for me to do whatever it was that needed to be done.  The down side of this, of course, is that I was doing everything.  Stuff was getting done, but I was slowly losing my mind because let’s face it, folding the laundry, while productive and useful, is not a substitute for recharging time.  I realized that it was ok to let the clean laundry sit around until Mr. X got around to putting it away.  The world would not end, and it turns out that his schedule is not terribly later than mine.  So, rather than spend that time folding laundry or any number of things that need to be done but not right at this very moment, I will take that time to peruse a magazine, or play with the dog, or just be.

I’ve been able to squirrel away enough me time for now so that I feel normal again.  I’ve also recognized that I need me time like diabetics need insulin.  It’s what makes me work, makes me be able to take the daily onslaught with a modicum of grace and humor.  I also know that I can always find five minutes and I’m allowed to take them, if I need them, to recharge.

Tempus Fugit and Forget It

Rex turned seven months old on Sunday.  In response to a picture of Rex I posted on my Facebook page that evening, one friend said, “didn’t he just turn six months?! Time flies it seems for everyone.

Except us.

These last seven months have been some of the longest of my life, no doubt in part due to the fact that I’ve been awake far more during their waking and non-waking hours than I would care to think about.  Even after we all started sleeping for longer periods, though, the time alternately dragged or flew.  I think this is because our lives are still in a state of flux as Rex grows and changes almost literally before our eyes.  Time seems to fly when things are routine, but when things are constantly changing, you don’t have time to get used to the new normal, let alone get into a groove that lets the time fly by.

But, why would you want time to fly, you ask?  I read so often new mothers with babies of Rex’s age and even younger wanting to keep their babies this age for all eternity.  And, I frankly have to admit, I don’t get it.  I really don’t.  I can’t wait until my child can feed himself and begin to communicate with us even if it’s sign language for “give me food, bitch!”  He has already started being able to give himself a bottle and it’s been this side of heaven for me. Look Ma, no hands! I can put him in the boppy with a bottle and gaze lovingly upon him as he stretches out like a fat cat nonchalantly sucking down his Similac Crack.

Still, there’s that little voice in my head that says, “remember this time. It will be gone before you know it and the kid will be 5 and no longer suffer your hugs and kisses.”  Right now, the overwhelming part of me says, “please, let’s get to 5. At least then he can wipe his own behind.”

Part of my antsy-ness to get him out of babyhood has to do with the fact that even though I’ve been taking care of an infant for seven months now, I still feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.  Sure, I can diaper him up in 15 seconds while lecturing him on proper changing table etiquette (twisting one’s body to get to the baby lotion is not acceptable while mommy is trying to cover your boy parts) and I can feed him a jar of pureed chicken and rice without getting too much on him or me.  But, I still don’t feel competent, in charge, in control of the situation.  And boy does that bug me.  Still.

Part of me thinks that once he reaches that age that I can talk with him, I can at least try to have a conversation with him in which we can discuss such serious topics as poop, pee and other topics of inherent interest to the below 3 set.  For now, he is full of grunts, screeches, screams, and singing notes going over several octaves.  He’s right where’s supposed to be developmentally. I’m just the one with the itchy finger on the fast-forward button because there’s still not a whole lot that we can do together.

Remind me of this, will you, when I’m lamenting that he’s 5 and I can’t believe how the time has flown?

image: Monceau

I Am Not Extraordinary

My parents were masters of making me feel like I was the smartest most fabulous kid out there.  In hindsight, I see that I was the only fish in their pond and so of course, I would have all of these superlatives thrown at me. Plus, I was quite the over achiever and they were “modern parents”.

As I grew up and waded into larger and larger ponds, though, I began to realize that while I was still pretty darn special (special in a good way, not in a knowing wink-wink way), there were literally thousands of kids just like me.  What was worse, there were thousands of kids who were smarter, more talented and more everything than me.  That was hard to realize and even harder to accept.

These days, I am mostly comfortable with who I am and what I’ve accomplished.  I finally realized that I needed to compare myself only to the plan that I had for my life, not with the accomplishments of others. On that scale, I’m doing pretty darned well.

Some days, though, that’s hard.  Like when you hear an interview with a woman who is your age and has just won a MacArthur Genius Grant.  What have I done with my life that would warrant a $500,000 no strings attached grant?

Nada. Zilch-o. Zippity-Do-Nah.

And you know what? That’s ok.

I admit, it did burn a little, even though I desired to be a marine biologist for about 5 minutes when I was 7 (although what girl didn’t dream about being a marine biologist when they were younger? I swear, for a few years there  it was the stock answer to the question of your future career).

Mr. X and I discussed this question of extraordinary-ness on one of our recent evening walks with Rex (who added to the conversation by babbling and gurgling from behind his little red stroller curtain).  He is very wise, Mr. X.  He reminded me that the measure of my life is the love that it is in it and what I do to make me happy.   Rex raspberried at that moment, probably to reinforce this.

He’s right. As usual.  Right, right and right.  And I know that I am happy with who I am, whether or not I’m given $500,000 for being fabulous.  Maybe I should start playing the lottery, though, just in case.

I’m That Mom

Lately, I’ve been asking myself , what kind of mother am I?

In some ways, I am the mother I always thought I would be.  In others, I am the mother that I know many people would shake their head at in disgust and disapproval because they would think that I’m selfish and cruel.  And you know what? When it comes to what others think, I can finally, honestly say, I don’t care.

Let’s get my mommy sins on the table, though, shall we? Rex hasn’t had the sweet taste of breastmilk since April, instead subsisting on the crack that is Similac (ooh, is it bad that crack and Similac rhyme?). He sleeps in his own crib, and has since we brought him home from the hospital.  If he cries in the middle of the night, I turn over and go back to sleep.  If he is happy in his crib and talking to himself, I let him stay there.  He goes to daycare pretty much five days a week.

Do these things make me cruel and heartless? Do they make me a bad mom? Nope, although if you think so, so be it.  I have excellent reasons for why I commit all of these ‘sins’ against my child, all of which culminate in the fact that they help him gain valuable skills that he will need in this dog eat dog world of ours.

You know the part about letting him cry at night? It’s because it teaches him to soothe himself and put himself back to sleep, which he can now do in under 10 minutes.  I’m certain the neighbors whose master bedroom is about four feet from his window are thrilled with that development since there were a few nights there where he was averaging 20 – 30 minutes of pure on crying (and I’m not sorry, guys – this is payback for leaving your extremely reactive dog with the World’s Most Annoying Bark outside at all hours for the last two years).

The daycare? It’s a fabulous facility that stimulates him socially, physically and intellectually far better than any regimen I could dream up or implement.   I’ve missed seeing him hit a few developmental milestones, but what’s most important is that he’s hitting them, early sometimes, and that he has someone there who is just excited about it as I would be.   And, its his daycare that lets me go back to work which I needed to do for my sanity and for our bottom line.  I need that time as an adult to be the best mom to Rex that I can.

The Similac Crack? Several different reasons there. One, the child has the appetite of an elephant.  There was just no way my itty bitty titty committee could keep up and I really detested pumping.  Two, frankly, I wanted my body back.  I gave him 110% for nine months, just as I gave my two previous pregnancies the best chance possible with following all of the draconian food and beverage restrictions of pregnancy.  The way I see it, though, I’ve let others have my body for the last five years – through the initial wonderment phase of trying to conceive, to the trenches of treatment.  My body did everything that was asked of it and I limited, restricted, cut back on whatever I needed to get the job done.  Once Rex was born and I had safely delivered my perfectly confected cargo, I knew that I would want my body back to do with as I pleased.  I knew that it would be sooner rather than later.  I just knew.  In the end, he got four weeks of breast milk, which I am happy with.  I had some wonderful moments with him breastfeeding and I’m glad for it.  He’s growing like a weed on the formula and thriving.  So it’s costing a small fortune.  It’s worth it if it means that Mr. X can drag his ass out of bed at 3 am and feed Rex without me having to do anything but give him an encouraging shove.

Rex sleeps in his crib because I was initially terrified about rolling over on him in my sleep and looking forward, I don’t want a three year old in my bed.  It’s hard enough to sleep with Mr. X throwing himself around (I don’t care what you say, Tempurpedic with your damn wine glass demonstration, I still feel him moving all time) and the cat wedged up at my head let alone a three year old throwing himself around the bed too.   No, I wanted to nip that one in the bud (or bed?) ASAP.  And, when Rex wakes up in the morning, I love to hear the sound of him chirping as he talks to himself and grabs at his little footsies.  He  babbles, raspberries and coos to the ceiling fan.  He’s learning to amuse himself, which again, is a terribly valuable skill, especially when it means giving mommy and daddy that extra 30 minutes of sleep.

I used to fret that I was too selfish to be a good mom.  Now I know that the question is not whether I am too selfish, but if I am selfish enough to let him grow and develop in the way that is best for him.  The answer is a resounding yes.

What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate

The other day, I spent about an hour counseling a friend who has just passed the bar and is looking to break into the legal job market.  Of the hour I spent talking to her, only 15 minutes was spent discussing her resume with some ‘move this here’ and ‘change that around’.  The rest was spent trying to get her to stop apologizing for her lack of everything – legal experience, good class rank, etc.  She would never get a job that way.

I thought about this as I was reading the over much-hyped article about infertility in Self magazine.  Resolve has taken up the article as a rallying cry against infertility being ignored. I think this is missing the point.  Being ignored is not the issue here.  Not being able to sell our disease to the public as a crisis and a travesty that needs public support and funding is the issue.

After all, infertility is nothing but fault based, a sort of you-break-it-you-buy-it scenario.   It is our fault that we can’t get pregnant: we waited too long to have children, we were promiscuous in our youths, we drink too much caffeine or alcohol, we were foolish enough not to request a semen analysis before the wedding and married men who shoot blanks, we can’t control our lady parts that have the nerve to grow outside of the uterus, we don’t have a uterus but can’t seem to grow one either, we just happen to be gay and have two of the same parts, our hormones are wonky because, hello, we’re just crazy bitches that way! As if this weren’t enough, infertility isn’t even fatal.

No wonder your average non-infertile person is going to look at infertile people and shake their head in disbelief that we want sympathy and money for treatment.  Or, they offer up one of those famous lines that we should just adopt because there are so many kids out there that need good homes or that we’re being selfish for spending so much money (ours and other people’s) to do something that is supposed to be natural and free.

The thing is for infertility to be taken seriously as a disease that needs to be treated like other diseases with the funding and treatment, we need to change public opinion about infertility.  I think one of the most crucial steps is that we need to stop apologizing for wanting the same experiences as our more fertile brethren.

I will say this again since it bears repeated. We need to stop apologizing.

People who don’t have difficulty conceiving don’t apologize for not having difficulty conceiving (although, frankly, some of them should).  And, on the other end of the spectrum, people with cancer don’t apologize for getting chemo.  So, why do we feel the need to apologize for wanting to have our own kids?  We need to stand up and say, “we have just as much a right to conceive our own children as those who do not have difficulty conceiving .”  We have to answer those who tell us to adopt.  We have to respond when we are accused of being selfish.

Being infertile means never having to say you’re sorry.

Oh, New York, New York

I actually let my subscription to New York magazine expire a few weeks ago.  I just didn’t have time to read it on a weekly basis and there was no point in spending the money to keep it up if I wasn’t going to read it.  This meant that I didn’t see the latest gem of a cover complete with attention-grabbing headline (and the even more groan-worthy subheader “Why Parents Hate Parenting”) until Adele eloquently discussed it through the lens of multiple pregnancy loss.

I dutifully read the article while absently noting that none of the information contained within it was either a) new or b) different than what I have read time and time before.  What is new is the perspective with which I read the article.  Because, you see, I have been on both sides of the equation now – the primary infertility with multiple pregnancy loss side and the healthy baby parenting side.

I’ll get the obvious part over with. The article is right on one point: parenting is hard.  It is fucking hard.  It is so hard sometimes that you want to hide in the closet and cry.  It is joy, it is pain, it is sunshine and rain.  It is wonder and it is drudgery. But, as hard as it is, I don’t hate it.  There have been times when I really don’t like it, but never hate.  In contrast, I can say unequivocally that I hated being infertile and dealing with repeat miscarriages.  I hated that I couldn’t do what every one else seemed to be able to do with a lot less money and effort.

In acknowledging and agreeing (read = complaining) that parenting is hard work, though, I am not saying that I am not grateful.  Sweet Baby Toes, every day I am grateful. I am grateful that we were lucky enough to be able to afford multiple rounds of IVF.  I am grateful that we were able to use our own genetic material.  I am grateful that my body was able to grow this magnificent human being and bring him forth into this world.  I am so grateful sometimes it hurts.

And, I still remember oh so well how hard it was to lose our first two babies.  I literally woke up from my first D&C crying that I had lost my baby.  I remember the bitter sense of unfairness that not only did I have to wait two years and go through multiple procedures to even get pregnant the first time, I lost the baby anyway (and went on to lose a second, after our first IVF).  It seemed doubly cruel to me.  All told it took us almost five years to have Rex.  Five years.  Even lazy college students started and finished school in less time.  I was lapped twice around by at least one friend.

But, it’s hard to be grateful all the time about anything, not just about babies.  As the song goes, I can’t complain, but I will.  I freely grouse about my job, my husband, my parents, my house, the dog, the cats, you name any good thing I have in my life and I will complain about it.  Not constantly, maybe not even regularly, but one of the few things that keeps me sane in this world is being able to complain, to vent, to seek a little understanding of my daily trials so that I don’t feel as if I am the only person in the universe going through whatever bullshit is of the moment.

Understanding. Isn’t that we are all looking for at any given moment?  The feeling that we are not alone in our pain, our confusion, our sorrow, our little annoyances.  Unfortunately, there was little room in this article for understanding the perspective of someone dealing with infertility which is why the blithe complaints just seem like such a smack in the face to so many.  But, I understand.  I understand that the pain of difficult parenting is nothing compared to the pain of infertility and pregnancy loss. Nothing. Not even a pinky finger’s worth of difficulty.

Perhaps the parents in this article ‘hate’ parenting because they haven’t had to deal with the real hateful experiences that are infertility and miscarriage.

Individual Results May Vary

I have been wanting to write about motherhood, as it is after being finally gloriously obtained after so many trials and tribulations.  Seriously wanting. And, I’ve had the time. Rex is in daycare (thankyou, thankyou, thankyou) and I am back at work part-time.  Partial sanity has been regained. While, I’m still oozing with bloggy feelings, something has continued to stop me, specifically my former infertile and childless self.  I would not have wanted to read what I want to write about. In fact, I would have un-subscribed from my blog tout suite after reading a few paragraphs and wouldn’t have come back for a while.

You see, I’m still struggling with this whole motherhood thing.  I’m not feeling those thunderbolts of instant love that feature so prominently on A Baby Story.  I don’t want to spend every waking moment with my baby and I certainly don’t want to keep him awake to play with him.  In fact, I think he is most attractive when he’s sleeping.  He is so peaceful … and so quiet.  When he’s awake, I am still a little on edge, waiting for him to get fussy either because he’s hungry or bored (or, worse, both).

About this time, the guilt starts setting in.  My Inner Infertile points out how much we wanted this child and how monumentally ungrateful I am being for having these thoughts in the first place.  Then I think about those who read my blog who are still trying to have a child and how I would have felt when I was there reading this (not particularly thrilled).  And, so I just couldn’t write anything.

The thing is, I remember so vividly when we were in the deepest darkest corners of infertility how much I would give up to have a baby and I feel just wretched that now I am so damn ambivalent about the whole thing.  I feel like I have let down myself and all of the other girls who have struggled with infertility. I always thought that once I had a baby, it would be so much better and to now have that baby – who is by all measures an absolutely wonderful baby – and not feel as if I am the happiest woman in the world is an incredible shock.

In a way, I set myself up for this.  I put so much emphasis on being ‘fixed’ once we had a child, that the baby would magically fill that gaping hole in my heart.  And he has filled it somewhat, but not the level that I thought he would.  Not yet, at least. So, I am left with a hole still, and what’s even worse is the sense that it should be full but I’m just too ungrateful, selfish, and plain awful to let Rex fill it.

It is getting better, though. Today, at lunch, he was smiling that whole mouth smile that just makes you smile too.  It’s contagious, like a yawn.  He’s started squealing, which we think is a prelude to laughing.  He’s even had his first walk facing outward in the Bjorn because he can hold his head up.  All of these are amazing milestones that seemed so distant not just a few weeks ago.  The good thing about an infant is that they change so rapidly so fast that the status quo, if you don’t like it, will change and pretty quickly (although, you may still not like what it changes too).

Today, I also felt, for the first time since he was born, like I was happy.  I was walking G with Rex in the Bjorn wearing this adorable hat and it just hit me.  I’m happy. In this moment, I am happy. Perhaps there’s hope for me yet.

image: paterjt