When I was pregnant with my first born, I prayed to whichever God would listen, to please give me a boy. I was absolutely terrified of having a girl. I was one of three girls and I knew how horrible we could be. Additionally, I was the child from hell. What would I do if I got a kid like me?
I’ve decided that my parents must have done something pretty terrible in a past life to be saddled with me. Not like Hitler-bad, because at the end of the day, I turned out pretty all right. But maybe like the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe-bad. You know:
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.
I mean, we all know she shouldn’t be starving and whipping her kids, but there were A LOT of kids. In our darkest hours, we can at least acknowledge the struggle.
Anyway, though I was convinced I was going to have a girl — so much so that when my son came out we said, “It’s a boy?” as a bewildered question rather than a exclamation of joy — I still held out hope for that bouncing baby boy. Wait, no I didn’t. That’s a completely bizarre concept. Why would anyone want their newborn to bounce? It’s clear that was just someone’s poor attempt to create an alliteration. And a pretty lazy attempt, too. Right off the top of my head I’ve got beautiful baby boy and brilliant baby boy. Both are decidedly better than bouncing. But really, I’d gladly settle for a happy and healthy boy.
In my pregnancy-addled brain, I imagined he’d be perfect. Rough and tumble, yet totally in touch with his emotional side and both strong and gentle. What can I say? The hormones really messed me up.
So, we all know how it turns out when you have expectations for who your child will become. Don’t get me wrong, my son is absolutely amazing. He is more than I could have ever hoped for in a child. He inspires me to be a better person every single day. He’s just not the boy I had created in my imaginary world (which happens to be a pretty great place where my husband doesn’t leave his dirty socks on the radiator, the wine is always good and the cheese and chocolate have no calories).
Starting at an early age (like, in utero), he was super active. And totally accident prone. He broke his first bone at the ripe old age of two. It was the night before Thanksgiving (of course) and he had just executed his 57th spectacular couch jump. Except this landing was a total fail. I was about 6 days pregnant and the doctor told me that I had to try and keep him from walking on his broken leg.
“I’m sorry, what was that? Did you hear me when I told you he broke this bone because I could not stop him from jumping off the couch?”
I spent the next few weeks trying to carry my crazed 2-year-old everywhere, while also trying to tamp down the constant nausea that pervaded my first trimester. This was not easy, as pregnancy heightens the sense of smell and toddlers tend to emit some pretty harsh odors. We worked out an uneasy truce where I tried not to throw up and he did whatever he wanted to do.
Within weeks of his sister’s birth, he had his first concussion. Not like, “Ouch, I bumped my head and it hurts a lot,” but like, “I think I’ll projectile vomit across the ER and then continue to do so for the next 24 hours. Let’s see if you can ever suppress the guilt.” Paired with my postpartum depression, it made for days worth of crying for everyone. You should have been there. It was a hoot.
Fast forward a decade or so and somehow, we’ve managed to keep him alive into the teen years. But I’m fairly convinced our next trip to the ER will warrant a red flag on his chart, with a certain visit from CPS. This year alone, he’s broken three bones. Luckily, it’s all happened in front of witnesses, and not in my home. Because I could see him totally having a blast with a case worker, “The beatings are brutal. They pelt me with hand-spun yarn and then force-feed me un-homogenized milk.”
As I watch him hobble along, on his now twice-broken right leg, I just shake my head. Yep, I certainly got a boy. A jumping, swinging, hopping and hanging boy with little regard for his personal safety an a complete sense of immortality that only teenagers can enjoy. He’s never exactly what I expect. And always exactly what I need. But I definitely need to force-feed him some more milk. This kid’s bones are like dry twigs.
Check out http://draxe.com/heal-broken-bones/ for additional suggestions on good food choices to support bone healing. Or just keep your kid away from mine. He’s kind of a mess.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
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