about this post.
My baby turned five today. Five. How? Where was I? What do you mean he isn't my Baby? He damn well is. And Dammit, If I want to mommy blog all fucking day long I will!
Five years ago I drove myself to the doctors office for my scheduled appointment. Blue Boy was one day overdue, and my contractions were eight minutes apart. My doctor told me to turn around and head for the hospital, but I told him I'd rather go to the mall instead.
So I did. FYI people. When you are panting and clutching your belly every four minutes, the people in the line in front will let you pass by. Just sayin'.
So after a few hours at the mall, I didn't stay too long because I still had plans on phoning The Husband at work to get him to take me out for coffee before we went in to whelp the kid.
To make a long story short - because this isn't about Blue Boy's birth, but his birthday - Jittery Joe was NOT at work when I called to beg him to take me to the
He was at the hospital already - getting stitched up himself. By the time he made it home the only thing on my mind was my glorious, beautiful epidural. It was the one and only time I have ever refused a cup of coffee.
(Also. I did not get my epidural until I was nine centimeters. Yeah. I know. They don't give them after seven. Unless you are me. And very bitchy. And insistent. Oh and you threaten to walk out of the fucking hospital right now and have this goddamn baby in the parking lot if I don't get my goddamn epidural NOW)
(And also? 11.5 hours of labour - total- and three half hearted pushes. No swelling, tearing or any other sort of pain if you discount the massive hemorrhaging that started two hours after his birth)
Where was I going with this again? I don't remember either, except that even when Stuperman was minutes old, I still considered Blue Boy to be my baby.
It might have been the fact that I knew. I KNEW that our pediatrician was wrong about his diagnosis. I knew it with a hundred percent certainty. I knew Blue Boy should have been treated by nine months old. I knew KNEW. That's why I kept taking him in. But I still accepted her pithy words and did nothing.
In a moment of strength I called on a different doctor and Blue boy was in for the first of his surgeries (left orchiopexy and minor plastic surgery on his tongue) within a month. And now, at five years old. I hear him talk and I see his scars (He had a third operation last May - right orchiopexy) and think about how he will never get to be a daddy, and I am overcome with guilt.
And how in the hell do I face him in twenty more years when he tells me he and his wife are "trying"? How do I tell him it's MY fault??
I had every opportunity to fix this in time. Had I just stood up for my son when he was unable to stand up for himself, - my ONLY job as a parent ->keep your baby safe and healthy - and I failed it - he would have been fine. But I didn't and because of that, I hold him a wee bit closer, because..
He's my baby.
And he turned five at 7:30 tonight(04/23)
(And also. I am well aware that this post jumps around more then Fab on a monkey, but I had to write it quick! quick! quick! because BB's story still either pisses me off or makes me sob, so deal, mmk?)