Hand crab

We've been hearing for two days about this "hand crab" that Brody made. He told us his hand crab looked different from everyone else's.

Finally we picked it up today. It's a painting with hand prints. Brody's looks way different. But he was saying over and over proudly that his was different from everyone else's. I, of course, told him that his was awesome and the best one. And it is.

I chatted with a couple teachers on the way out the door, letting them know we had located the infamous hand crab painting. One said to me quietly, "He was so sad at first that his hand crab looked different from the other kids but then we worked with him until he was so proud of himself."

It breaks my heart that he felt that way. And that he was sad and hurt. And it makes me so grateful for those teachers. But mostly it just makes me want to hug him for the next 14 years.







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For P

This is for P. She knows who she is.

I'm BUSY. Want to know why? Well, it's called soccer. And I am the idiot who agreed to be a volunteer coach for Brody's soccer team. One weeknight practice, and one weekend game, per week, since April, has seriously cut into my free time. This was probably a greater time commitment for me than other coaches because I know as much about soccer as Liam does. In fact, imagine a baby who can't sit up on his own trying to tell six 4 year olds what to do, and you pretty much have our practices. The only thing I'm really good at is using that whistle.

Between looking up drills online to keep the kids interested during practice, and the whole, you know, parenting of a new baby, while working outside the house full-time, I fall into bed at the end of the day too tired to think, let alone ruminate on life, let alone complain, on this blog.

On the agenda for the next week:
Liam is clot free. That's a big one. No shots for about 2 weeks now. All his bruises have healed.
Brody's talking about his arms.
Brody and Jeremy are going on a trip to Oregon, leaving me and Liam to the bachelor life for 5 days.
On how to handle a physical difference when meeting new people - wear clothes to make it less noticeable?
Secrets I've learned about coaching soccer while knowing absolutely nothing about soccer OR coaching

Questions

Most nights, while Brody is in his bed, he says, "Mommy, wanna do questions?" Then he asks me, or I ask him, random questions. So, tonight, he asked me the following:

Why do we put bad guys in jail? (and what if they get a key to get out?)

Why are bookshelves so tall and not 4 years old tall?

Why do Spider-Man and Venom need webs?

Also, Liam turned six months old today. Six months!! I can't believe he is so old, so young still, or that I lived a day of my life without him.


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Not all bad

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Where have I been?

Where have I been? Nowhere good. But I can't blog about it. You should see my journal though. Ha!

Next appointment for Liam is May12 to check his clot size.


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Ancestry

My sister Marilyn wrote this email to me:

Just read your blog... You are tough.  Maybe because you have to be, but that is the same as Mom and Dad.  Dad had to grow up in the [Great] Depression.  Mom had to hide under tables during world war II [while being bombed by the Allied forces].  You have to give your son shots.  And if tequilla helps numb things for a moment, then so be it.

She reminded me from whom I come.

I got this.

Sláinte

Tonight I couldn't do another shot. Not of liquor, but of Lovenox, to Liam.

I made the mistake of looking at him when he's screaming when I give him the shot. Usually I just watch his legs, and make sure the medicine is going in. Yesterday I looked at him.

He was looking right at me. Staring at me. Do babies have thoughts complex enough to register what he saw?

He recognizes the shot itself, the needle.  If he sees it, he gets agitated and scared and kicks his legs even harder and starts to cry. Now I prime the needle with my back to him. And tonight, after a rough shot this morning, I couldn't do another shot.

You know what's worse than giving your 4 month old a shot into his thigh? Hearing him scream from the other room while someone else does it. That sound is louder than if I was holding him. Why is that do you suppose?

So now I've decided I have to do it. I have to be the one to give him the shots, even if he stares at me and knows it's me.

I remind myself that there is a cure, there is a fix. I remind myself that it's not as bad as having cancer, which two people close to me - very close in relationship and within 3 years of my age - currently have. I remind myself that we have support and love and my SF girls and my friends who walked in instead of walking out and my sister Marilyn is trying to get us free medication through an organization. I remind myself that he's 4 months old and I don't remember when I was 4 months old or even 12 months old so he won't remember looking at me.

But I'll remember. I'll remember him looking at me and I'll remember him screaming and I'll remember the times I fucked the shot up and he kicked it out and I had to re-shoot him while he was screaming and kicking. And I'll remember how once, one time I did a 90 degree angle instead of 45 degrees and I put that bloody needle through his skin twice at the same time, like a sewing needle, and the medicine shot out onto my arm while he was screaming screaming screaming. I'll remember each and every sob and scream and how his tears taste and how when I hold him after the shot, he still shakes and cries as loud as he can because me holding him isn't enough to make the pain and anger go away even just a little bit.

And that is why I have instituted a new policy at Casa Liam. For every shot he gets, I get one too - except mine is tequila. It's not healthy, it's not a good coping mechanism, but it tastes good and numbs it for a second or two.