My cousin just returned from dropping her cherished son off at college, and it got me to thinking. Parenting is not for sissies. Obvious, perhaps, but true none the less. Being a parent is a terrifying thrill ride, complete with sudden stops, hairpin turns that pull your stomach inside out, and the occasional crash. There is no insurance to help offset the cost of emotional catastrophe, there is no way to prevent the inevitable disaster, and there is no way to stop the runaway train that is called your child. And to think it all starts with a moment of transcendence. (No, not that moment. This is a G rated blog.) I'm talking about the moment you first see your beloved offspring in the glowing light of the ultrasound monitor.
When I had my oldest, ultrasound was not exactly new, but it wasn't run of the mill, either. It was, back then, a fairly inexact science, but a tool they were using more and more frequently when pregnancy had the unexpected bump. Naturally, I had lots of bumps; morning sickness 24/7 for months, chicken pox, fainting spells. So of course, there was no surprise when I went to my weekly checkup, smack on the due date, and found out there was another little problem, which required an ultrasound the next morning.
What prompted this unexpected, and very expensive uninsured turn of events? Well, I had my very first ultrasound when they realized that my anticipated arrival was upside down. Or, rather, right side up, if you want to be exact. He was already mooning the world, a comic circumstance which is almost irresistible, but I'll refrain from the guffaws. I should have known then it was not going to be a kiddie ride....
As a result of this ultrasound, I was informed that we were off on the due date by a month (never mind what the patient says, the technology is always right,) my anticipated arrival was a girl, and she was only about 3.5 pounds. They sent me home, a defeated, sobbing mass of unhappiness, because I had been pregnant forever, and I just knew I would never be able to last another month. I couldn't breathe, I knew the location of every restroom in a ten square mile radius, my back ached, my feet hurt, and I was miserable.
Naturally, that night I went into labor, and after a C-section the following morning due to a small snag. the head being stuck in my rib cage, I gave birth to a 7 pound 3 oz boy. Which turns out to have been a good thing in a lot of ways, not the least of which was that I was going to name her Tiffany, and now that he is 23, that seems rather uncalled for.
I will never forget driving away from that hospital, my little bundle of boy crammed into the back seat, strapped into a carrier that seemed too big, giant head flopping to the side, diaper on backwards. Indeed. It is fascinating that they would not allow us to leave the hospital with him until we had successfully bathed him, but they were unconcerned that we put diapers on backwards for the entire stay. I am certain some of the twinkling in their eyes was due to suppressed laughter as they watched us struggle to make sense of this tiny action figure.
As it turned out, it was even more fascinating that we were allowed to leave the hospital without CPR instruction, since we needed it. My son with the 190 IQ could not breathe and sleep at the same time, resulting in all kinds of excitement for the whole first year. You think it's a thrill when they do something to take your breath away, but the word thrill is redefined when they take their own breath away, and you aren't sure when or if they will catch it again.
He was not allowed to fall asleep in his car seat, lest we have a repeat of the incident where I yanked him from his car seat in the middle of the thoroughfare and gave him mouth to mouth, with a panicked crowd watching from the sidelines. We gave a whole new meaning to the song, "Shake, Rattle, and Roll." You would have seen us driving around the city, waving toys, singing, doing anything to keep that poor kid awake. Which might explain why he has had such a hard time going to sleep ever since.
He had an apnea monitor attached to him at all times for the first six months, then only when he slept until he was a year. The alarm sounded exactly like our microwave buzzer, so every time the microwave went off, I grabbed my son and yelled, "BREATHE!" He never was much on hugs, come to think of it....
He was a cute little thing, very smart, took apart a lamp while it was still plugged in and regularly started the record player just to watch it go around. But trouble found him. We nicknamed him Adam Bomb, because he was always creating havoc. As it turned out, this name was more apropos than we could have imagined, but I'll get back to that.
We were on a first name basis with the emergency room staff at a pretty early age, since he had severe asthma in addition to the breathing issues. So they were not surprised to see us come rushing in one afternoon, blood pouring from his finger. This child who had never moved a muscle previously had suddenly decided to crawl, and got into some glass and cut himself. They admonished us to be more attentive, but they had no idea just what a job that was going to be.
The next trip to the ER was for a swallowed penny. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and my son and I were at home, along with his dad, who had not yet gone AWOL on us. Someone, not naming names but it wasn't me, saw that Adam was sucking on a penny, and for some reason (more of that stellar judgment so frequently on display) did not take it away or even tell him to knock it off. Naturally, the next thing I know, Adam is in front of me, scratching at his throat, choking and turning blue. I rush out to the car with him, husband trailing in confusion.
We get to the hospital, and he is breathing. They tell me he will pass it, happens all the time, not to worry, go home and get a grip. So I tried. I really tried. But my ADHD son went home and sat motionless on my lap, and since he hadn't sat still since birth, it was clear something was still dreadfully wrong. He stopped breathing again. Back in the car, back to the ER, where they labeled me an hysterical mother. Which I was.
Ultimately, I refused to leave until they did an X-ray, which resulted in a pretty interesting flurry of activity. I saw a nurse come scurrying through, glancing at me apprehensively, then talking in hushed voices with the ER doctor, both of them Not Looking in our direction. Then another nurse came through with an X-ray which rather clearly showed a big round disc in the middle of the neck, and it became clear that we had located the missing penny. Eventually they rushed him into surgery and extracted that penny, which we still have. When someone says to him, "A penny for your thoughts," they have no idea just how much those thoughts are worth!
Adam seemed to enjoy his time in the emergency room, since he followed up that penny incident with several more, including two hernia operations, and my favorite, baby liposuction. He had a sand table in his preschool room, and was told roughly eight bazillion times not to run inside, when, of course, he ran. And fell. And hit his chin. His fat little double chin. I won't go into the gory details, but let's just say the next time you hear the word straightjacket, don't assume it means someone can't move. Or get out of it. We adults think we are so smart, but I can verify that a three year old can reduce several well educated adults to shreds of their former selves in five seconds flat.
When you are in possession of a lively kid, you rather quickly learn to dread the appearance of a certain number on your CallerID. Whenever the school ID popped up, I knew I was in for a rough few minutes, and I was rarely disappointed. Although there were many incidents over the years, the Bomb Episode was, without question, the one that stands out in my mind as the day I asked myself, what was I thinking?
The phone rang, and it was my son's teacher, calling from the principal's office to inform me (it is NEVER a good thing when they call to inform, by the way) that my son was being suspended for bringing a bomb to school. This was before Columbine, and although the occasional school shooting had occurred, it still had an unreal feel to it. So when Mr. W told me that my son brought a bomb to school, I was dumbfounded. I sputtered. I choked. I coughed. I said, "WHAT?"
You know that cartoon image where steam is coming out of someone's ears? Ya. Well.
In the end, of course, he hadn't actually brought a real bomb to school. He had wrapped an AA battery in blue paint tape, stuck a string out the top, and then told someone he had a bomb in his pocket. Who told someone. Who told someone. Who told a first grader. Who cried and then told their teacher. Who wanted to evacuate the school and call the police. Which is where Mr. W came in. Which is where I came in. Which is where Adam went out the door of the school and into the family dog house.
There is a funny post script to this, of course. In the end, he was allowed back to school following a stern lecture and a long meeting, and as a consequence, he had to stay after school every day for a week to write a paper on responsibility. The principal was so pleased with that paper that he submitted it to a national conference he was attending, where it was read as an example of the value of positive teaching! Dr. J had a lot of detractors, but I remain grateful to this day that he understood the difference between consequences and punishment, and saw that teachable moment for what it was.
We've had a lot of years, 23 of them now, to experience all the emotions life offers. From watching him on that first ultrasound, to watching him take that first step, to watching him drive away alone for the first time, to him watching us drive away on the first day of college, your entire job as a parent is to make yourself obsolete. But then you get to have the best part of the whole thing - you get to be their friend. It is a hair raising, stomach turning, physically demanding job, and is definitely not the for the weak of spirit. But if you are a fan of thrills rides, you will never exerience one more exciting!
