Mom. I mean Aimee....

I've been listening to my baby "cry it out" for the last 45 minutes.  And we're out of wine.  This should give you some indication of my day.  The high point was when my darling eight year told me that she hoped her dad would remarry so she could call that woman mom and call me Aimee.  Apparently at that point I wouldn't be her real mom, just a crappy step-mom named Aimee.  Serves me right for telling her to make her bed and pick up her room.  And on that note screw the wine and bring me the vodka.

Skinny legs and all

“Jeans?” Chance asks as he’s folding laundry. “Jeans, Maggie? Really?”  This question is asked to the child who has refused to wear jeans her entire life.  Jeans are not soft. Jeans are not comfortable. Jeans don’t fit like jammies.  Never mind the fact that they last 10 times longer than those damn leggings which require replacing after 5 wearings due something I like to call HKS (holey knee syndrome).  I clearly have a hard time learning my lesson because I continued to buy jeans convinced at some point there would be a turn around.  (I am the proud owner of multiple pair of jeans size 2T through size 7 that have NEVER been worn.)  Yet, in the course of one day (yes, one day) Maggie became a jean wearer.  Important to note here is the fact that not only is Maggie wearing jeans but she is wearing skinny jeans.  When she does something she goes all in.  Maggie could not figure out why there was such incredulity in Chance’s voice.  “You hate jeans, Maggie.”  “What are you talking about? No I don’t. I’ve never hated jeans” replied the girl with the short term memory indignantly. 

This one?

We’re moving out of the haziness of the last 3.5 months (also known as life with a newborn) and tiptoeing into infant hood. The result is a little more sleep and clarity for us all, which means I finally have the wherewithal to put down some thoughts regarding Max’s first days. There was one particular thought which played over and over in my head. It went something like this….

My cousin Kelsey told a story at my grandmother’s funeral in March. When Grandma was born she was so very tiny and her mother was afraid for her health. She asked the doctor if Grandma would make it. “This one?” the doctor said jerking his head toward my grandmother. “Don’t worry about this one. She’s going to live to be an old lady.” My grandmother died a few weeks before her 99^th birthday.

I think of this story often. In fact I held on tightly this story during our stay in the NICU and made it my own. Max’s life was never in any real danger but the blood draws, the antibiotics, the heart echoes, the monitors, the oxygen, the IV in his head, foot and arm, and around the clock care certainly made it seem as though everything could collapse at any moment. During these times I would look at my fragile baby Max and think to myself, “This one? Don’t worry about this one. He’s going to live to be an old man.” Those words never failed to give me comfort and make me smile. In the midst of it all I like to think that maybe just maybe another tiny baby born 99 years ago was watching over Max and thinking the exact same thing.