SNSS: New Baby and New Beginnings

Today's guest, Jessica Severson, of the blog Don't Mind the Mess, is unique as she only has one child. Yet. She is, however, at the time of this posting, pregnant with child number 2, a girl. 

Jessica's two and a half year-old son is on the Autism Spectrum, and thus when her daughter is born this winter, she will be born a special needs sibling.

Jessica writes about her parenting journey in blog, both as it pertains to autism and all the usual toddlerish stuff, too. She also writes about the other interesting and entertaining things that cross her mind, including popular culture and yummy recipes. She is funny and intelligent and is a pleasure to read.

Come experience that here, now, as she talks about the hopes and fears that come with the expansion of a family that already includes autism:

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New Baby and New Beginnings - by Jessica Severson

I used to want 4 kids. In the early months after my son was born, I thought 3 wouldn’t be so bad. By the time he was diagnosed with Autism at 17 months, I didn’t know if I could handle 2.

I used to be jealous of families where the Special Needs child was born 2nd or 3rd and it would be easier for them to make family planning decisions. For us, with our first child diagnosed with Special Needs and a heightened risk of any other children also having Special Needs, the decision to have more children was fraught with worry.

I used to think that if I had another child, I would want to wait until my son was in school. I didn’t think I could handle two young children where at least one had Special Needs.

And yet despite all of that, here I am, 6 months pregnant with my second child. My son will be just past 2 and a half when his sister is born.

Even stranger, despite the years I spent worrying about having more children, I feel really happy about it.

The best I can tell is that I have worried about as much as I can. I’ve reached the point where I know I want to try at least one more time. I’ve stopped looking for the perfect time just like I’ve stopped waiting for a perfect child.

It is happening. And if we find ourselves in a worst-case scenario, at least it won’t be anything really new. We have been around the block. We have handled it. We can do it again.

That’s not to say I haven’t worried at all. An early test showed an increased risk of chromosomal defects. Those first few hours after I heard the news were some of the darkest I’ve had. The truth is, no matter how ready I feel to handle another child with Special Needs, the hypothetical idea of it is so different than the actual truth of it.

My amniocentesis came back perfect. But it was a bit of a wake-up call. I was idealizing the prospect of my second child. I was already imagining her as neurotypical and normal. She isn’t an opportunity to do things better, she’s a child just like any other with her own unique set of needs.

Teaching my son to prepare for his sister’s arrival has been more fun than I expected. He has learned the word “baby” and even knows to associate it with my belly. His therapists have included programs where he hugs and kisses a baby doll. We are working on treating things gently. A lot of it is pretty typical 2-year-old stuff.

If anything, I feel lucky that my son will still have the comforting rituals of his therapy hours to get through the early transitions. I feel lucky that my family will be there to provide him with play and structure.

And our decision to have the baby this early means my son will still have his Early Intervention therapy for 5 more months after the baby is born.

There’s never a perfect time to provide your Special Needs child with a sibling. Especially if they bristle at change. But that is what family is for. And knowing that my children will be able to be a support for one another comforts me.

Maybe it won’t happen for decades, but someday they will understand each other. Someday they will be able to stick up for one another. And disability or not, they will be able to relate to each other.

So far I haven’t let my son’s needs get in the way of a vision for the future of my family. What do I really want for all of us? I want us to be close to each other. I want us to trust each other. I want family gatherings to be joyous occasions. I am comforted knowing that my son’s needs don’t have to get in the way of any of that.

I’ve learned from my son that taking things a little bit at a time is the way to go. I don’t expect that to change when his sister comes. If anything, I think I’ll be able to treasure both of them more.

I hope that having two different children means I can appreciate two different personalities. Of course that means two different sets of weaknesses and frustrations, but it also means two different sets of strengths and joys.

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I love how Jessica is sailing forth into this brave new world of parenting more than one child with optimism and a heart full of love, knowing there will be challenges, but preparing to meet them with good cheer and fortitude. It is inspiring.

Also, full disclosure, I actually met Jessica in person at the Boston Bloggy Bootcamp conference last May and she is just as delightful in person as she is on the internet.

Now that you have read Jessica here, you are clearly going to want to follow her home to her blog Don't Mind the Mess and dig in.

You may want to start here, with how the stresses related to parenting and her son's autism lead to a spiraling depression. 

Try this post about the guilt that can come on when you and your child are actually doing better, or this one about the day Jessica got the results of her amniocentesis back and found out the new baby was a girl, and OK chromosomally.

Also, go follow her on Twitter where she tweets as @jessicaesquire, go like her (I know you do) on her Facebook fan page, and finally, go see the stuff SHE likes on her Pinterest boards.

Jessica, thanks so much for sharing your thoughts and feelings with us here at SNSS, and wishing you much happiness and joy as you bring your new baby girl into your lovely, loving family.


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Nine Years and Counting

Nine years ago today my life changed...

Undeniably...

Irrevocably...

Completely...

(At exactly 10:12 - and then again at 10:13 - AM)

In ways I could not possibly presage, did not thoroughly fathom until, suddenly, there were two hearts, beating furiously in the world, that had moments ago echoed solely, safely, inside the cavern of my body.

Their cries piercing the hushed hum of the operating theater, the chill but joyous room where I first met my sons, and then cried out, myself, as they whisked them away, too soon. Too soon!

I squawked, demanded. (As much as a half-bodied woman, pinned to a table, being re-viscerated can be said to demand.) My obstetrician, a mother herself was supportive. I really loved her.

She was whip smart and had a wicked, dry sense of humor. She actually came in on her day off (also, coincidentally her own mother’s birthday) to deliver my boys, as at 39 weeks it was time for them to come OUT.

Hospitals are full of rules, and C-sections are very medical ways to birth babies. It’s really, truly surgery. They take a baby out, hold it up in the air in front of you for the briefest of moments, say “See, here’s your baby?” and then they whisk him away to do hospitally things to him.

As I was making noises about wanting to actually HOLD my babies, there was resistance from the nurses, they had their jobs to do. But my wonderful OB had my back. “You’ve got two, hand one over to her!” she commanded, and thus I found my son Jacob thrust into my arms, wrapped up like a little burrito in one of those ubiquitous striped hospital blankets.

I held him close to my face, peered into his.

The moment my son and I locked eyes has forever been seared into my brain. I had never experienced love at first sight before, never known that singular moment when everything turns betwixt one breath and the next; a shift of axis wobbling proportion.

And here, now, was that for me. Because here was the face of my son, unknown until the moment before, and now emblazoned on my very soul; and I knew with unwavering certainty that it was the beginning of our story, a lifetime of love.

And I knew that here was someone, one of two someones, whom I would die for. Someone for whom pacifist me would fight, tooth and claw, for; whom I would throw myself in front of a bus for.

And then, when they took Jacob from me and handed me Ethan, my heart doubled up, while remaining the same. An unexplained phenomena that just is: how a heart can be full to the brim and then fill again without ever emptying, expanding infinitely but remaining intact. 

My heart was still firmly encased in the cage of my body, and yet now also walking around the world beating away inside these two tiny beings at the same time. How can that be? Shhh, that’s one of the secrets of motherhood.

Finally they were done putting me back together and I was sent to the recovery room next door, my boys to the maternity ward upstairs.

I sent my husband with the babies, to join the grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who were gathering to meet the newest family members. I went to recovery alone. And thus began the longest two hours of my life.

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This is another piece of the long story of my boys' beginnings.

Earlier this summer, I showed the world how I "rocked my bump" in a post I wrote to link up over at Shell's place.

Last year, I wrote a letter to my sons on their eighth birthday, recounting my joy at their coming into the world.

I thought I would have told my whole conception, pregnancy and birth story by now. I thought I would have had the time, that my life might be less of a whirlwind this year (foolish me). And yet it seems to spin, if possible, even faster still.

But no matter how quick the dance, I must pause each July 29th to give thanks, to marvel again at the miracle (modern, medical) that is the existence of my two beautiful boys.

Hello, my loved ones.

Happy Birthday, Ethan and Jacob.

Jacob and Ethan.

Today, nine years ago you graced the world with your presence.

Today, nine years ago you made me a mom.

My world has never been the same.

Thank you, from the top to the bottom of my heart.

I'm linking this post up to Maxabella's I'm grateful for... and this week I don't have to tell you why.


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Rocking my Babies

Once again, the fabulous, generous, community-building Shell of Things I Can't Say, she of the Pour Your Heart Out weekly Wednesday link-ups and so many more (remember Rockin' the Bump?) has come up with a NEW wonderful link-up meme: Rockin' the Baby.

She wants our kids' baby pictures. And since I LOVE looking at pictures of my boys from way back when, I'm so in!

Especially as we're fast approaching their 9th birthday at the end of this month, and so I'm I getting all weepy and nostalgic reflecting on how they've grown and are (sob) not my little babies anymore.

My boys were endlessly cute back then (still are). So here they are in all their adorable baby glory:

Ethan  - a one week old elf

Jacob - a two month old "Baby Power" activist

Jacob & Ethan - my three month old Carrot and Pea

There is such a bittersweet feeling when I look back at pictures from these earliest days. They are from a more innocent time, before I knew we were headed down the road hand in hand with autism.

So when I see these pictures I am brought back to those impossible-to-believe-now days when the future was endlessly rosy and anything seemed possible; when I thought my boys would be best friends forever, never lonely, always having each other to play with.

Anything is still possible. But some things seem a lot less probable, now. Sigh.

And now, as a bonus (and also because I can never leave well enough alone)... I'm throwing some generational stuff into the mix here.

First a trio of pictures from a contact sheet of newborn me, being held by my lovely, then raven-haired mother. Taken by my marvelous photographer father.

Don't I look like a mix of the two of them? (Oh, wait, genetics goes the OTHER way... so, um, rather, don't they look like me?)

And finally, my father as a baby, in 1917:

As astonishing as it may seem to young children, old people were once babies, too!

This post is linked up over at Things I Can’t Say.  Thank you, Shell, for encouraging us all to share photos of our babies (sob, they're not babies any more).

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9 Years Ago I was Rockin' a BIG Bump

Me, April 2002, 5 months pregnant. Really.

I got my bump early, what with carrying twins and all, moving from the "Is she preggo or just really fond of beer?" to the "Oh, yeah she's preggo!" stage in rapid succession.

It helped get me sympathy as I puked all over Los Angeles and the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah (almost in James Caan's lap) on my last business trips before I was grounded by my obstetrician.

At Sundance, the actress Julie Benz, who played the pregnant vampire Darla in the (Buffy the Vampire Slayer spin-off) Angel TV series rubbed my bump "for luck." That was pretty awesome.

In Los Angeles?  The boys were really growing. I needed fuel, and plenty of it. Intensely. And impatiently. (I *might* have eaten the untouched cornbread from a basket at the just vacated table next to ours when the service was glacially slow in that LA restaurant way. Mmmmm that cornbread was good.)

It was NOT a good idea to get between me and my plate of risotto on that trip. (You would likely have found teeth marks on your arm.)

This is me in Los Angeles in February, only 3 & 1/2 months pregnant, mind you:

On the beach at sunset. Maybe Malibu. I don't remember. It was almost dinnertime. I was getting hungry.

My husband and I took our last trip alone together in April, a weekend getaway at Mohonk, a Catskill mountain resort just 90 minutes from the city (we had been admonished not to go any further).

April 2002, 5 months Pregnant, 4 months to go!

Right about now? In early June, nine years ago? I was losing my mind trying to get our kitchen/bathroom/baby's room renovation completed before the babies arrived.

Because twins without a kitchen? Really bad idea. Twins without a working bathroom (our apartment only has one)? Even worse. And a 3-week job had turned into 2 months and counting, of course.

I needn't have worried.

Already big as a house in early June, I couldn't imagine going full term, to that date I had awoken from a dream in January and spoken out loud with such certainty I'd marked it on the calendar: "July 29th -- I'm having the babies on July 29th!"

But there that date is, on their birth certificates.

39 weeks.

Nearly 14 pounds of babies.

Which looks like this:

Me, July 28th, 2002, my last night pregnant

And then?  These:

Ethan & Jake, 1 day old

Worth every stretch mark, and then some.

This was written for the Rockin’ the Bump Link-up at Shell’s blog: Things I Can’t Say. Come join in! And I dare any of you to show me one bigger!


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And so it goes

I thought it would all get easier as Jacob got older and matured, grew into himself; as his language developed, engagement with the world expanded.

Time to think again.

Right now it is getting harder and harder to go out with Jacob. Along with expanding interest he is becoming less easygoing. He now wants what he wants when he wants it. And also? He will not be easily denied, distracted, redirected.

And Jacob? Loves babies. If I am anywhere near a baby or young toddler  (= pretty much anywhere out of our house) I can't take my eyes off him for a minute, so great is his love of and desire to interact with babies.

With babies we know personally? Usually a tolerable situation will emerge (with close supervision) and can actually be a great source of delight for all concerned. Because Jacob will talk to a baby for hours, asking him questions, shaking a rattle in front of her, taking a just walking toddler for a cruise around the room.

And the babies? They love Jake. Because he talks to them like they are people, equals, doesn't talk down to them in baby-talk; will pay them endless attention. And what baby doesn't want endless attention from a big kid?

Jake with baby friend at Greta's Bat Mitzvah this May

With complete strangers, however, who see this giant, 80-pound, 10-year-old-looking, yet 3-year-old-acting boy about to pounce upon their tiny baby? A frightening situation at best.

I look away for a minute, like to check on my other son, make sure he is still in sight. When I look up there is Jake making a bee-line for a stranger and her... oh, no, sleeping baby. So I have to drop everything and run an interception move, shouting at the top of my lungs: "Jacob, no! Come back, we don't know that baby!"

Sigh.

Today was Ethan's 3rd grade end-of-year picnic. I had no sitter, my husband was both working this evening and so jet lagged (having just returned from his week working his ass off teaching in Milan) as to be a useless zombie this afternoon... in other words, I was (once again) alone with both kids.

So I had to bring Jacob along. It won't be so bad, I thought, even though Jake goes to a different, specialized school, he has been coming to his brothers events for years, no biggie.

Jake used to be easy at these things, happy to sit near me and play with toys I'd brought along.  But now, runs off to the far reaches, often in search of babies. Fortunately, relatively scarce at this big kid gathering.

But the other thing he does? Try to talk to and interact with the other big kids? It doesn't go well.

Because he's strange.

He's either talking about movies, reciting when they will open and what they are rated, or he's asking strange questions. The kind that might get him beaten up, like: "Are you a baby?"

Or? He's walking right through the middle of heated ballgames, not noticing there's a game going on. Or even worse, noticing and grabbing the ball and running with it, because he thinks that's playing with the big boys.

Great. Something else that will be getting him in trouble. (That happened, badly, yesterday. I started to write about it, just couldn't finish that post "And so it begins" yet, even though it should have preceded this one. It's still too raw, will be coming soon.)

Today? He'd brought a large toy train with him, and proceeded to find the one patch of dirt in the entire lush green lawn to sit in and roll his train around. He basically swam in the dirt.

Some younger kids came along to help him dig a hole with a stick and bury his train. I am sure their parents did not appreciate the lure of the dirt, but frankly as long as he was staying out of trouble I was happy.

Until he started throwing some dirt. And a little girl didn't appreciate that; retaliated by shoving his face into it, before I had completed my charge up to him to stop him.  

And these days? Jacob, once upset, gets stuck. Really stuck. And so I have a hysterical, crying, screaming autistic kid on my hands now, too covered (head to toe) in dusty dirt to make a fast escape.

So there I sit, surrounded by the other families trying not to stare at the spectacle on my blanket as I clean Jake off, pack up all our stuff. I make arrangements with our next door neighbors to bring Ethan back with them so he doesn't have to cut short his thrilling dodge-ball game to slink home with his autistic brother.

And I thank my stars that Ethan is in a wonderful (NYC public) school, that this is not a much judgmental crowd. My friend Sandra's daughter, kind and sympathetic, is offering Jake her treats to try to cheer him up.

Another mother whose children have issues, who is on the PA's Support for Special Needs Committee with me, comes by as we are nearly ready to go and marvels at my patience. I can't really take credit for it; it's the patience of the weary, of the worn down to a nubbin Mom that I am these days.

The tears are winding down, finally, as we board the bus up Riverside, only a few stops but far too far to walk my exhausted son. I am grateful for a nearly empty bus, as he sits down in the front "elderly & disabled" priority seats.

And you know, he IS disabled, even if it's invisible. We can rightfully claim those seats, but still, I'm glad that we're not making some old lady walk to the back, not engendering the stink-eye from the other passengers.

Because I just couldn't take that today.

Soon we will be home; he will be bathed, pajamaed and happy again.  Soon he will have moved on into ready-for-bed mode. But me?

I have left a part of me on that lawn where the other parents are playing ball with their kids or chatting with their friends. Where I am wiping the dirt from my sobbing, screaming son's limbs and wondering what is next.

What, my God, is next?


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E is for Ethan

E is for Ethan

Could it be otherwise?

I don't think so, for he is the big "E" in my life.

My firstborn.
 
By one minute.

(Not that he ever lets me or his brother forget it.)

So, for once, this won't be all about autism, though it certainly informs and affects Ethan's life, presses in upon him.  And he likes that not one bit, declaiming with wailing voice, "Why did I have to have a twin brother with autism? Why can't I have a regular brother, like other people?"

And I have no answers for him, no easy solace, no words of comfort, other than to agree that it is indeed hard. But also this rejoinder: that we don't pick the families we are born into, that we all just have to play the hand we're dealt.

And I hold him while he cries. And I remind him of the wonderful things about his brother, while making sure he knows it's OK for it not to be OK.

He is allowed to be mad at, even to hate and resent his brother. He is not allowed to be cruel to him, a line clearly drawn in the sand.

Ethan, the boy, will talk about his feelings. I hope this is something he can retain, that it will survive the rough pitch and tumble of male adolescence, let him grow into a man who will talk about his feelings openly with his closest friends, with the woman he loves.

Ethan, the boy, is passionate. He loves his friends, basketball, computers, and his toys/collections.

His current obsession? Gogo's Crazy Bones. Never heard of them? Then you're probably not living with a 7 to 9 year old right now.

He is of the age of changes. From one minute to the next, quick and quixotic, patterns long stable are shifting, tossed aside as he stretches his "big boy" muscles, both literal and figurative.

Conversations with Ethan are still so often delightful (except when he is going on and on about Basketball players and game stats, and then I am looking for the knitting needles to puncture my eardrums with).

I am still central to his life. And I hold my breath knowing that I will blink and he will be releasing my hand as we walk down the street, moving on into Tweendom; and then beyond.

Looking forward is a little scary; unknown adventures in parenting await. So let me look back for a moment, tell a story from the beginning:

Ethan was newborn, still in the hospital, maybe 2 days old. I was looking at him versus Jake, marveling at how vastly different they were from each other. Not quite night and day, but barely twin-like.

Jacob was a newborn straight out of central casting: a big-headed, Winston Churchill resembling, bald but for tonsure-like blond fringe, classic Gerber baby.

Ethan... not so much so. With his smaller head, fine features, visible and expressive eyebrows, scalp covered in dark but thin and sparse hair, including seeming sideburns (that led us to quip we should have named him Elvis instead) he resembled nothing so much as a miniature middle-aged balding guy. Seriously. But in a cute way.

So that day, when he was sleeping in my arms, I leaned down and whispered in his ear: "I know your secret: you're not really a baby. In reality, you're a tiny forty year-old man, somehow magically transformed into an infant. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone, your secret is safe with me."

As soon as those words were out of my mouth - I swear this is true - still deep asleep, his mouth broke into a giant grin and his eyes popped wide open then rapidly rolled back and forth in a crazy fashion.

This went on for about 5 seconds, a near perfect rendition of a Groucho Marx comedic eye roll. Then his eyes snapped shut, his smile vanished and he was once again, simply, a sleeping newborn.

But we had shared a moment; and I knew, I knew.

Here he is, then:

Ethan, 5 minutes old

And now:

Ethan 8 years old

Being the mother of Grouch Marx, reincarnate, isn't always easy; but it's never dull, often highly entertaining, and always deeply rewarding.

E is for Ethan...

Energetic, enthusiastic, enchanting, exhausting, extraordinary, eminently lovable.

My son.

This post has been inspired by and linked up to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday writing meme. And now, of course, "E" is one of my very favorite letters. Bet you can guess the others.

I'm also linking this post up to Maxabella's I'm grateful for...  because I am eternally grateful for my son, Ethan.


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The Beauty of Blue Bear

Jacob's Blue Bear

He is no longer blue, has not been for nearly as long as I can remember. He once was, there is even the photographic evidence of it.

Jake with Blue Bear (actually blue) at 5 months

Bedraggled yet beloved, he no longer resembles a bear, having lost most of his facial features to the ravages of time and Jacob’s strong teeth and saliva in the time when he sucked and chewed on everything in sight, those many early years of mouthing for sensory input.

But “Blue Bear” he was dubbed and “Blue Bear” he remains, even though “Gray Rat” would be a more apt description of his appearance these days.

Jacob chose him as an infant, out of the many stuffed animals gifted to the boys when they were born.  And from about the age of six months on, they were inseparable.

Jake was the easy to put to bed twin, right from the start.  Once they found each other, as long as Blue bear was in his hands, all was right with the world and off into dreamland they marched together. 

Ethan, on the other hand was not a stuffed animal baby, not a lovey lover.  When he had to have ear tubes put in at 18 months, we were told to have him bring along a special toy for comfort, and he chose his then current favorite: a hard plastic toy tomato from his play food basket.  The doctor’s office staff was quite amused by this, having never seen a child soothed by a toy vegetable before.

Ethan eventually succumbed to the charms of a stuffed brown monkey, and then moved on to a whole family of dragons, eventually hosting a parade of Pokemon and pufflesin his bed.

Ethan and (stuffed) friends, age five

But for Jacob, it is now and forever, always Blue Bear.

When Jacob’s chewing and mouthing was especially fierce, from about 18 months to age three (at which time Jake’s sensory issues were decidedly ameliorated by a course of Tomatis) Blue Bear was a favorite object for this, too.

He was always in Jake's mouth, never dry.  Which led to his nickname among family members and in-home therapists: “Stinky Blue Bear.”  We don’t have a washing machine in the apartment, have to use the laundry room in the basement, only available certain hours, which meant opportunities to sneak the soggy bear out of Jake’s hands and into the wash were quite limited.

So Blue Bear got washed about once a week, twice if we were lucky and very wily.  He smelled… a lot... like wet dog, like old saliva and a little mildewed to boot.  But he survived, we survived, and Blue Bear is still the guest of honor at any table Jake sits.

Over these many years Blue Bear has been Mom-repaired too many times to count. His arms lie flat, their former filling having leaked out slowly, one tiny bead at a time.  His head has been reattached, a bit awry. His stuffing re-stuffed at least thrice.

He has one original plastic eye, the other rendered in black thread, hastily stitched into an imperfect circle that was nonetheless accepted, his owner anxiously watching the process, worried over his one-eyed bear, happily now made whole.

To an outsider's eye, Blue Bear is an ugly old thing, over-washed and worn out, warped from his original shape to near unrecognizability. 

But of course to us, we see neither the chewed upon ears nor the grayed matted fur.

We see only the love that has been poured into him for eight years, the comfort given, the tears snuffled out with head burrowed into his soft, giving, forgiving belly.

We see only the beauty of Blue Bear.

This post was inspired by the Red Writing Hood assignment to write a short piece about something ugly - and find the beauty in it.



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Wordless Wednesday: Baby Love

Jacob holding his baby cousin

On Sunday, after a horrific day in the trenches of the homework wars with Ethan, I received a lovely E-mail from our niece's husband (why is there no good term for that relationship... nephew-in-law?) the father of the month-old twin cousins Jacob had gone to visit that day. 

I was feeling rather gloomy and wrung out, and it was just the hopeful, good news I needed to hear.  I'm going to quote it here, and then show you the rest of the pictures, too, because they're all so cute.

Dear Varda,

I wanted to send a short note to let you know what a wonderful visit we just had with Jacob (Danny too, but that's a different story)!

Jake was sooo sweet with our boys, so attentive, so connected! It was amazing to watch, amazing to experience, and made me (and Stephanie) feel warm all over.

He wanted to hold each one, wanted to talk to them both, wanted them to wake up, go to sleep, and answer all of his questions.

It was the most connected I have ever seen Jacob, and I really loved watching him. I know that it can not always be easy to take care of this special boy, but please know that your hard work is well worth it! He gave kisses and smiles, held hands and talked (although he would not tell me what MegaMan was about, he was happy to report on who was in the movie.)

Anyway, we have some great shots of him with the boys.  I hope you will take a look, and kvel like all mothers do.

-Darone
 

Darone then sent me the photos, and further informed me that Jacob could not remember his cousin's names, calling them "Green Baby" and "Blue Baby". 

Jake holding "Green Baby"

Jake holding "Blue Baby"

Jacob sure loves those babies!

Thanks, Darone & Stephanie!


I’m linking up to Wordless Wednesday at Angry Julie Monday.
I'm also linked to Special Exposure Wednesday at 5 Minutes for Special Needs.

Imagine that

My father, Jim, as a baby, 1917

I have been ruminating a lot on age lately, how it is both such an inescapably binding and yet liquate and amorphous thing. Time marches our bodies physically in one direction only (science fiction speculations notwithstanding) and yet we retain all the ages we have ever been inside us. 

It is a hoary old aphorism that in old age we recapitulate a second childhood, yet bearing witness to it renders it with fresh sad amazement.  At least my children were out of diapers before my father moved into them.  That much sandwich, I think even I couldn’t take.

My father, as soon as he arrived home from the December hospital disaster, before we lost him into the folds of his mind, when he was clearly nearing the end, but still present with us, demanded that Bruce and Lois, my brother and sister, come to visit him, NOW.  He summoned them.  And was very clear he wanted them not just for a day, but for a considerable length of time, a real visit.  He had a lot to say.

No one ever said it out loud, but we all knew he wanted to say goodbye while he was still himself.  A wise move on his part. 

Because the visit was over a weekend, their presence allowed me to spend some much needed time with my children, who had barely seen me during my father’s intense hospital stay.  So I was not there with them while Dad talked and talked, somehow knowing his time with words was coming to an end.  Bruce told me that Dad had been dreaming vividly about his father and brother, dead these many years.

Although there was love there, he had never been close with his older brother, Alan.  Of vastly different temperaments and fortunes, they embodied the fork in my father’s family: one tine made up of artist dreamers and the other all ambitious businessmen.  My father the former, his brother the latter. 

His thoughts of his father were, as always, complex and painful.  His father had been rather a rat bastard, living with and supporting the family only sporadically, keeping another life, and presumably other women, in the city.  The one time he took my father & his brother out with him, into the city, he warned them: “I’m your Uncle, not your Father. My city friends don’t know I have kids, and I intend to keep it that way, so call me Uncle John.”

At 92 my father still cries about how he felt abandoned by his father, how he always felt less than the other boys he knew, who had fathers at home every night.  Whether those fathers kissed or beat those sons didn’t matter, theirs were there, his was not. 

I have been turning out drawers looking for old photos of Dad, thinking I’ll need them soon.  I’ve found quite few of the father I never knew – a dapper young man who wore suits with panache and a bowtie.  The father of my youth was a middle aged hipster, and then an old hippie.  I think he wore a suit once, to my first wedding, under protest.  But it tickles me to see him with blond curls in short pants.

I show the old pictures to Ethan and his brain can barely wrap around the concept: Grandpa was once a baby!  It’s hard enough for him to imagine his own parents as babies, children, teenagers themselves, in spite of the voluminous photographic evidence that supports such madness.  But that old man to baby transformation is just too much for him. 

Age is one thing to the body, quite another to the brain.  I remember my father saying to me, just a few years back, how amazed he is every time he looks into a mirror, to see an old man looking back at him, because in his own mind he still feels himself to be the same person he was at 20.  How can the mind have such coherence when the body changes so? 

The changes of age still baffle Ethan.  Used to the dictates of childhood: older = bigger, he is confused by this idea of old people shrinking, or why his father’s brother, his Uncle Jim, is shorter than his Father, even though Jim is older.   He thinks it hysterical that he will be taller than me and is counting the minutes till the magic moment.

“Will I be as tall as Daddy? he asks, hoping to cross that threshold of six feet.  “Who knows?” I answer, thinking “probably not, you will probably always be shorter than your brother”; thinking “let him have that one advantage please, don’t have to win everything.”   Ethan is one minute older, but Jacob was, and will likely always be taller, larger.  “Fair” I’d thought at their birth, “they each have one starting advantage.”

Knowing I was having fraternal twins I expected difference.  Little did I know what was coming down the pike. 

Jacob, too has a grasp of age and change.  He will look at old photos of himself and his brother and say: “That’s baby Ethan, that’s baby Jacob”  However, the size = age corollary has an even stronger hold on Jacob.  “Cocoa’s a baby” he keeps saying about our middle aged cat.  Seven pounds sopping wet, the boys were about her weight when born.  So he is right, she is baby sized.  But two years older then the he is, imagine that.

As I search for a way to take the ribbon of this post and tie it up into a neat bow for a tidy ending, I see how very meandering it has been.  Ruminative, I suppose, does not lend itself to tidy, and I guess that’s just the way it’s going to be today, with loose fringy ends all over the place.

Kind of like my life.  Imagine that.