A Snowman in April

There was a time when we had arguably the best yard on the block and with the exception of the old retired guy one cul-de-sac over, possibly the entire neighborhood.  We weed wacked, edged, mulched, sprinkled and fertilized to our heart's content.  It was pristine.  An oasis of emerald green, it beckoned bare feet from as far away as six houses in either direction.  One step into that yard and your toes wiggled in orgasmic delight.  

Then we had kids. 

The weedwacker disappeared behind a team of strollers and the edger was overtaken by a gang of rogue Fisher Price toys.  Diamonds, criss crosses, wave and circle patterns were replaced by the same thoughtless horizontal back-and-forth-as-fast-as-you-can-before-naptime-is-over patterns that blanketed the rest of the neighborhood.  Our perfect oasis of green had become a desert peppered with crab grass and bald spots.  Not even the ChemLawn man could save us.  We had reached the point of no return.

This was and still is my reality as I stood before my withering lawn yesterday afternoon.  With spring in full bloom and a hint of summer in the air, I decided that a miracle would happen on this day.  In the span of an afternoon, I would nurse this baby back to her glory days and all order would be restored.  So as soon as Henry went down for his nap, I raced into the garage and wrestled the lawnmower free.

After a few passes, I settled into the task, confident in my ability to undo the damage of the past four years worth of neglect.  Charlie was busy across the street constructing a bike ramp worthy of at least one broken bone.  And Lola was...wait...where was Lola?  Normally her brother's shadow, she was nowhere to be seen.  I cut the mower off and headed into the garage.   Salvation for the yard would have to come another day.

"Lola?"

No answer.

"Lo-Laaaaaaah.  Where are youuuuu?"

Still no answer.  Had she wandered down the block in search of cooler toys?  Was she small enough to squeeze through the mouth of the sewer drain?  Christ, had she been kidnapped?!  My mother's panic button was seconds from going off.

 

"Do you wanna a popcicle?"

A faint rustle came from the back of the garage.  Checkmate.  I had the rabbit in my crosshairs.  Carefully, I maneuvered the obstacle course before me keeping close sight of that tuft of blond hair peeking from behind the parked stroller.  What was she doing back there?  Was she hiding?  Was she okay?  Had a paint can fallen and rendered her unconscious?  I couldn't get back there fast enough and in my haste, I tripped over 2 plastic grocery carts, a dumptruck and a half eaten tennis ball.  Note to self:  time to clean out the garage.  And then I was upon her. Oh shit!

Oh, shit.

Her big round eyes fixed straight ahead at the plastic blue police car, she wouldn't break the stare to look at me.  I knew that look.  I had seen it many times before, usually at the dinner table.  That was the look that gave her away.  And then.  Then the smell. 

"Lola Geist.  What.  Have.  You.  Done!?!"  As if I even needed to ask.

"Lola go caca."  One point for bilingualism.  Too bad it was all over my garage floor. 

  

But where most mothers would be pissed, annoyed, or dismayed, a CF mama is forever curious.  Was it going to be a CF poop; greasy, bulky and foul smelling? Was this to be the end of our journey down the road of pancreatic sufficiency?  How long would it take me to teach her how to swallow all those enzymes before every meal?  I crouched down to get a closer look.  Au contraire mon frere!  It donned the same shade of brown as my batch of chocolate brownies baked not too long ago and was sprinkled with...was it remnants of green peas from last night's dinner?  Not a trace of grease that I could discern and it was beautifully formed.  A smallish round head rested upon a portly shaped belly, it had the the shape of a snowman!  It was indeed The Perfect Poop.

All jubilation was interrupted when my husband's head popped through the door to the house to announce the end of naptime.  Never one to mince words he bellowed,  "Henry's up.  He wants a BOOB."  Aaah...yes, honey.  I'm coming.

The sad lawn would wait another week, her crab grass sprouting and her bald spots widening but alas, with the arrival of the snowman in April, a new sense of order had been restored.

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?

Penny for My Thoughts

"Come on, Mama...what are YOU gonna wish for?"

A wink and a smile crossed my face, "Nuh-uhh. If I tell you Buddy, it won't come true."

Truth be known, I was a little too self conscious to share my thoughts on this question. That, and a four year old has not the time nor the patience to put up with listening to them. This was us a month ago standing in the middle of The Mall of America, our backs turned to a coin filled fountain; breeding ground of wishes, dreams and surely pseudomonas . Joe had given everybody one penny. One chance at making a wildest dream come true. Pennies were cast in hopes of that one wish granted; one lobbed haphazardly, one dropped clumsily, one thrown at rocket speed and mine...mine...mine was burning a hole in the palm of my hand as I strategized.

I can't really blame CF for ruining the moment. No, not this time. I'll take full responsibility for this one. Me and my big fat Type A personality. My parents nicknamed me Patty Perfect as an adolescent. Perfect? Ha! Far from it but the name stuck anyway, like a sticky wad of bubblegum to the bottom of a brand new shoe. Alas, in most arenas I have found this nickname to be a true fit and this moment was no exception. Think hard Patty, this wish has got to be PERFECT.

My strategy for this wish went against every grammatical fiber of my being and as a cool sweat began to bead my furrowed brow, I closed my eyes in deep concentration, willing my wish to come true.

I wish for the excellent health of my family as we live a long and peaceful life in our white washed casa amidst the rolling hills of Spanish sunflowers in the province of Andalucia where our children will recieve news that a cure for cystic fibrosis has been found before the reporters show up at our doorstep to confirm the news that we have indeed won the national lottery.

The beauty of a wish is that there are no rules - something I clearly took advantage of in that run-on sentence of a hope. Lottery, sunflowers and white washed casa aside, there was no way I could leave out good health. But CF? Damn it! How do those two dreadful letters find their way into EVERYTHING?!

Is a penny enough to grant all that AND a cure? Probably not. Maybe next time I'll pack away the Type A, keep it simple and just wish for happiness.

Random Thought

The amount of dirt left behind in the ring around the bathtub is directly proportionate to the amount of fun had in one day.