No Fear
When I got knocked up with the Fetus Now Known as Bob, I had my concerns. I was only 28, but the sperm donor was pushing 40, and I had concerns about old sperm. The sperm donor was also a drug addict, and I had concerns about intoxicated sperm. The sperm donor also continued to smoke weed in my immediate vicinity while I was pregnant, and I had concerns about an infant with munchies--or much, much worse.
Then came the Bob--all 6 pounds, 13 ounces of him--and he appeared to be fine. I didn't bat a sleep-deprived eyelash when, at 5 days, he developed a hemangioma (raspberry-colored raised area) on his scrotum. I thought the pediatrician who accused me of letting him cry through the night instead of getting up to feed him was a hateful bitch. I thought the pediatrician who scolded me for letting him sleep in his swing (strapped in) was over-cautious. I thought the pediatrician who recommended laser surgery to remove the hemangioma (which poses no health risk) and a CT to rule out unnatural causes for his huge head was fucking crazy. I didn't worry about Bob's physical health, because to me--the person who saw him every day--he appeared perfectly healthy and thriving.
What I worried about was his emotional health. When I started getting phone calls from daycares when Bob was not even two, I initially thought "these people are nucking futs." But the more the calls came, the more I realized there was definitely something amiss with my kid. And I worried. And I worried some more. And I worried to the point of sleeping pills and anti-anxiety meds and stomach upset and weight gain.
I don't really worry anymore. I don't know if it's because I'm now numb to it all, or if seeing the difference in Bob with time and adjustment and stability has lessened my concern. I know that there's only so much I can do, and that Bob's destiny will, ultimately, be Bob's decision to make--not mine. I can only provide him with the best information in the interim and hope that I teach him well enough that he can make the best choices down the road.
And as for Moosebaby, I'm not worried about it (for lack of gender specificity) at all. Yes, I'll be 35 in 9 days. But I don't think I'll wake up 9 days from now and feel my entire physical being has shot craps (no more than usual, anyway). My grandmother had two children past the age of 35, and aside from being a little strange, they're both healthy and normal. Neither of us have any family history of birth defects or any other genetic abnormalities.
I also know that, no matter what happens, we'll figure out a way. Just like we have since the day we met.
And if that doesn't work, we'll leave the kids with the dog and disappear to Canada.
Then came the Bob--all 6 pounds, 13 ounces of him--and he appeared to be fine. I didn't bat a sleep-deprived eyelash when, at 5 days, he developed a hemangioma (raspberry-colored raised area) on his scrotum. I thought the pediatrician who accused me of letting him cry through the night instead of getting up to feed him was a hateful bitch. I thought the pediatrician who scolded me for letting him sleep in his swing (strapped in) was over-cautious. I thought the pediatrician who recommended laser surgery to remove the hemangioma (which poses no health risk) and a CT to rule out unnatural causes for his huge head was fucking crazy. I didn't worry about Bob's physical health, because to me--the person who saw him every day--he appeared perfectly healthy and thriving.
What I worried about was his emotional health. When I started getting phone calls from daycares when Bob was not even two, I initially thought "these people are nucking futs." But the more the calls came, the more I realized there was definitely something amiss with my kid. And I worried. And I worried some more. And I worried to the point of sleeping pills and anti-anxiety meds and stomach upset and weight gain.
I don't really worry anymore. I don't know if it's because I'm now numb to it all, or if seeing the difference in Bob with time and adjustment and stability has lessened my concern. I know that there's only so much I can do, and that Bob's destiny will, ultimately, be Bob's decision to make--not mine. I can only provide him with the best information in the interim and hope that I teach him well enough that he can make the best choices down the road.
And as for Moosebaby, I'm not worried about it (for lack of gender specificity) at all. Yes, I'll be 35 in 9 days. But I don't think I'll wake up 9 days from now and feel my entire physical being has shot craps (no more than usual, anyway). My grandmother had two children past the age of 35, and aside from being a little strange, they're both healthy and normal. Neither of us have any family history of birth defects or any other genetic abnormalities.
I also know that, no matter what happens, we'll figure out a way. Just like we have since the day we met.
And if that doesn't work, we'll leave the kids with the dog and disappear to Canada.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:03 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home