Now and Forever
Upon learning that we were to become parents again, ex and I reacted with the cool, calm aplomb that comes from having survived five years with child number one. Or rather, having had child number one survive with us. Our most common refrain was something along the lines of “well we didn’t kill the first one, so we should be just fine.”
In hindsight I think we had it backwards. Of course the first one made it to five relatively unscathed . She was the first, and with first children parents tend to be hyper-vigilante against all possible calamaties. We read the books and followed all the directions.
-Outlet plugs
-Baby sleeping on her back
-Nothing smaller than a basketball in her hands prevented choking
-Never ever left alone in the room with window blind cords.
The first one never had a chance because we never let our guard down.
So with an arrogance possessed only by the truly stupid, we pressed on with child two.
She nearly choked on Barbie shoes. (Child one never had a Barbie until it was age appropriate so there were no shoes lying about the house)
She climbed over the sofa onto the the counter, grabbed a knife and a tylenol bottle and proceeded to attempt to saw the top off.
She wandered around after her sister getting into everything. Climbing stairs, falling down stairs, eating dirt, swinging high into the air (not securely fastened in baby swing seat), pulled the few remaining outlet guards from the wall and juggled them.
It is a miracle child number two made it to eight intact. But she did.
Magically we arrived at an age when most parents allow themselves to exhale. They are 8 and 13 and we are now comfortable with the knowledge that neither will likely choke on candy or the string of her jacket. They won’t run out into the street without looking, touch a hot stove, drink the cleaning solution. Yes, they are safe.
Granted, like all parents I harbor the big bad fears-kidnapping, car accidents, freakish acts-of-god. I kiss them on the forehead and whisper a prayer as they head out to school and worry, but it is a worry that is buried deeper below the surface, the constant worry that comes from having my heart walking around outside my body.
But all in all,we made it!
And then, this.
Chronic illness.
Wait a minute, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I never imagined it, never allowed it to cross my mind (lest tempt the fates), never prepared myself.
Now my little one, who can finally buckle herself into the seat, ride without training wheels, dial 911, is sick. Seriously sick and will live with this for the rest of her life.
I know, we are lucky. It could be much much worse. She can be medicated. She can do everything right and have wonderful odds of living a very long life. We aren’t battling cancer or any number of things, we’re battling Type One Diabetes.
It could be much much worse. And yet, how could it get any worse?
The side effects, the risk factors, the odds.
For the rest of her life, this will be a part of who she is.
For the rest of my life, this will be a part of me.
I will never again truly exhale and think
We made it.
