LET THEM EAT CAKE

Two birthdays in the span of less than a week. 
One anticipates kindergarten.
The other, walking.

It's a HUGE deal that five year old birthday party.  So why then did I wait 'til the day before to pull out great grandma's homemade chocolate cake recipe and the KitchenAid?  Uhm, I mean, order the cake?   A HUGER (yes, my word) deal still that first birthday.  And I don't have a single present wrapped yet?  Uhm, okay, I mean bought.

What's up with that?

Fine.  I'm a crappy mom.  But truth be known, I don't even remember my fifth birthday party let alone my first.  While some might think me putting the store bought cake on a pedestal and passing it off as my own akin to plagiarism, I think it's sheer genius.  But hold on a second.  Before my regulars (all 5 of you) jump to my defenses with, "...but you're not a crappy mom...you're really not..." I invite you to raise your glass (hand if you're foregoing) and toast ALL the crappy moms out there like me.  And by 'crappy' I mean:

1.  You're running around half the time like John Bobbit; your dick in your hands focused on getting that thing sewn back on ASAP but failing to notice that your house is burning down, the dog just ate a pooey diaper and is licking the baby's face and your bra's on inside out. 
translation:  YOU'RE BUSY

2.  You're just a smidge grumpy from that four hour cat-nap most call 'nightime'.
translation:  YOU'RE TIRED

3.  You pass off the bedtime story because it's easier to snuggle your kiddo tight in your arms as he lays transfixed by (insert cartoon).
translation:  YOU'RE SCARED HE'S GROWING UP TOO DAMNED FAST

Cheers ladies, here's to the next 365 days. 

May they be worth every single candle on the next (store bought) cake.

A Little Faith

Two months have come and gone since Henry joined our crazy family. Now we are 5. He's the baby I always dreamed of having; rosy cheeked, easy going and a mini Buddah. Finally, a baby that looks like MY side of the family! The bond between Henry and I was instant. So much more quickly established than with either Charlie or Lola. Funny how that works, isn't it?



It's true what they say about the third child, cast to the wolves to raise. Well, not really. But it is crazy trying to juggle it all, that much I'll admit. Where Charlie had an entire website dedicated to him, Henry had a pre-op Facebook post, gone from the news feed before he could even suckle a breast. Where Lola has a binder full of cards and letters welcoming her into our life, Henry was lucky that I even got his footprints into his baby book. I fully expect that his first meal will be served on the floor. And probably in the garage, poor kid.

Yet he still smiles. He is a dream. Rolly-poly hands, a gummy smile - everything I always dreamed of. In eight short weeks it's already impossible to imagine our family without him. "Hey little fell-owe, you wanna' play cars?" invites Charlie. When he awakens it is Lola who announces to the family, "Hen-Weeeeeeee wake! Hen-weeee wake!" The Three Muskateers, that's my crew.

My cousin theorizes that his red hair shielded him from CF. Of that I'm not so sure...he still got that nasty, sonofabitch Delta F508 gene. That little speck of a gene is what I hate most about myself. Big boobs and muffin top aside, that despicable gene is my number one nemesis.

Joe called me at school the day the genetic results came back. "He's negative."

"Huh? Who's negative? Charlie? Put him in Time Out. Just make sure he doesn't get into the Costco bin of laundry detergent. Someone has been gittin' into that bin lately!"

"No, no Kel. Henry. Henry's negative. The test came back. He's just a carrier."

Just a carrier.

JUST A CARRIER.

JUST A CARRIER.

I would later tell my girlfriend of the rush of pins and needles that wooshed through my body. It was a feeling I had never known before. I couldn't explain it and I still can't. Maybe that's the same rush that a heroin addict experiences? It was overpowericng, yet brief. Gone too fast, I wanted it back.

It was I who had declined the amniocentesis. Life for us is good. The cure is on its way. I wouldn't terminate anyway, why risk it? If this baby were to have CF, we'd love him as much as we do Charlie and Lola, simple as that. I did not want to know. I remember leaning into my philosophy with Charlie and Lola; do everything I possibly can, EVERYTHING and then give the rest up to God to worry about. I couldn't second guess God, no, not this time. It was what it was, He would take care of things. I think it's the very first time in my life that I can say that I leaned into the word faith. I thought about that word more in the past 10 months than I have in my entire life. Funny how that works, isn't it?

And so the pregnancy progressed. For a while I was self conscious about being pregnant. I felt obligated to justify the pregnancy to Clinic and other CFers. This is afterall a very controversial topic in the CF community. I secretly wondered if eyeballs were rolling as I lumbered in and out of Clinic visits. But thankfully, by the time the last trimester rolled around I had just about forgotten that we still sported a 1:4 chance of having another member of club CF. It was filed away in the back of my mind; neatly set aside until further notice.

Now I'm a mom of three and it's a mad dash to keep all the balls up in the air. I've got two boys and a girl; two blonds and a red head, two tigers and a cub.   I remind myself that each sibling will share a special bond with the other and I wonder, how will it look this bond?  Will the boys be closer due to their gender?  Will Lola and Henry be closer due to their age?  Will Charlie and Lola be closer due to CF? I ponder these and other questions all throughout the course of a day.  At a red light on the way to the grocery store, between numbers 8 and 9 of the weekly spelling quiz,  while hanging laundry out on the line, these questions float around in my head.   And of course, there are no answers.


Funny how that works, isn't it?