Up at five-thirty. Seven o'clock departure. No shower. Not enough coffee. Packed everything but the kitchen sink. Snowy banks and pines. Staring out the window thinking of Sandy Hook kids, of ridiculous, dangerous, stupid guns, of Noah Pozner's precious, little hand and jaw shot off. What if it was my boy? Second amendment, my foot. The world could be a better place without those guns. We are the lucky ones.
Traffic. Potholes. Boston. One neurologist's lovely face. One dietitian's lovely face. Hugs. More hugs. One bonk on the head. Tears. Body Mass Index 13.9 = Fourth percentile. Skinny, skinny boy. Effing drugs. One flawless blood draw. Painful nonetheless. Goodbyes. More traffic. Potato chips and apples. Yogurt and PBJ. Sunshine. Forty degrees and balmy. Snacks. Sick boy. Nap with eyes half-mast. Photos. Love. Will slightly reduce one of three drugs. Then wait and see. Two-thirty return. Glad to be home. Exhausted. But I have my boy.
Traffic. Potholes. Boston. One neurologist's lovely face. One dietitian's lovely face. Hugs. More hugs. One bonk on the head. Tears. Body Mass Index 13.9 = Fourth percentile. Skinny, skinny boy. Effing drugs. One flawless blood draw. Painful nonetheless. Goodbyes. More traffic. Potato chips and apples. Yogurt and PBJ. Sunshine. Forty degrees and balmy. Snacks. Sick boy. Nap with eyes half-mast. Photos. Love. Will slightly reduce one of three drugs. Then wait and see. Two-thirty return. Glad to be home. Exhausted. But I have my boy.
Oh, my goodness. It doesn't sound like fun, but he sure is adorable. And getting so big (despite the skinniness!)
ReplyDelete