Busted on the Bloor Line: 365 + 8

Where in the world did a year go? It honestly seems to have moved at light speed — the RRBB turned one last Saturday. We celebrated by having a party with our families and a few close friends. Of course, he didn’t know he turned one. He didn’t even know he was the star of the show. He simply took it all in stride as the living room grew more and more crowded, and more babies arrived to play with his toys. We took the idea of no presents very seriously. Our boy has been so lucky to be so loved by everyone in his life from near and far that he’s been incredibly spoiled from the minute he entered the world on October 22 at 3:04 PM. At first my family were a little frustrated and angry with us for asking everyone to refrain from gifts but I think when they saw much stuff was already in my house, they understood. Now all I have to do is convince them to not go crazy for Christmas. I am not sure I will win that battle.

He spent the majority of the weekend miserable and upset. Two days in daycare equals the remaining five getting over whatever sickness has made its way around the room. So, we’ve spent the passed three weekends trying to make him well enough to go to daycare on the Monday & Tuesdays. The weekend of his birthday, the poor fellow caught the same awful tummy bug that felled my RRHB and kept him in bed for almost three days (well, bathroom, then bed, then bathroom, then bed). He had the worst diaper rash I’d ever seen. Hours before his party he had his diaper off, rolling around the kitchen floor, letting, ahem, loose. He was the grumpiest I have ever known him. Yet, the minute people arrived, he was delicious: happy, excited, glad to see everyone in his world that adores him. 

I baked a cake, from scratch. Made the icing, from scratch. My RRHB cleaned the house within an inch of its life. We ordered brisket, coleslaw, rye bread and latkes — the food was delicious. People ate. They drank. They conversed. I panicked that it would all be too awkward for words. It wasn’t. But the day flew by so fast and was coupled with such stress at the state of his health that I didn’t have a moment to even reflect on the fact that we managed to make it through 365 days together.

We are not a family that pays attention to dates. Neither my RRHB nor myself can ever remember our anniversary. We don’t stand on tradition. We don’t buy presents, except for really special occasions. We almost never remember to celebrate, well, anything. I don’t see this as a fault. Perhaps we’re pragmatic. Perhaps we’re cold-hearted. But we’re just not like that — I’d rather spend the money on a decent trip than on Christmas. But I’d happily spend $100.00 on a happy turkey to feed our entire family because it’s something we both enjoy — cooking an extensive, somewhat elaborate meal. Yet, now that there’s a little person in our lives, I find myself softening in my resolve. When it was just the two of us, there didn’t seem to be much of a point to go through all the motions. The stockings. The birthday cakes. More often than not, my birthday descends into chaos anyway (ruptured appendixes, car accidents, forest fires, and I’m not even joking); and there’s always some sort of family drama that cuts right through the Christmas holidays. But there’s something incredible special about our little fellow. All of the nonsense seems, well, just silly. There’s just happiness and joy. He brings out the delicious joy in just about everything and that’s one of the best things that I have discovered about having a child. I feel a bit guilty about not taking him out for Hallowe’en tomorrow but, goodness, he can’t even walk and, goodness, the RRHB and I really don’t need to eat all that candy.

Yet, I am so looking forward to Christmas. To finding him a stocking, to sewing his name in it, to stuffing it full of goodies and things that I had when I was a child: giant oranges that always made me think of Little Women. I can’t wait to read him ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and decorate a tree. To have his photo taken with Santa. To open up our doors again and have our families intertwined as he races around the house like a little maniac. Maybe that’s the real lesson in surviving an entire year — that life is an adventure and it’s rough, harder than you ever imagined those first few months, but now he’s almost-walking, and saying, “what’s that,” and “that” all the time, laughing and dancing, loving his books, and becoming a hell of a fussy eater. Each day he’s got more personality, stubborn with a wicked temper, daring with a dash of rapscallion, and I can’t believe that he’s mine.

We were a family before the RRBB arrived. Our adventures mainly taking place on foreign shores or in dusty nightclubs where my RRHB was playing. Things are different now. There’s adventure in everyday life as we navigate the days keeping an eagle-eye on the RRBB so he doesn’t pull the lamp down on top of him or crawl upstairs unaided (when we forget the gate). A walk seems to be a good way to spend a beautiful autumn afternoon. And yet, in the last 365 days I can’t believe what we’ve been through: plasma exchange therapy, blood transfusions, cyclophosphomide, c-sections, breast feeding, stopping breast feeding, circumcision complications, colds, thousands of doctors appointments and blood tests, hand, foot and mouth disease, fevers, shots, prednisone pounds and puffiness, side effects, stress, and yet, happiness. Can’t you see it in all of our eyes? And there’s a delicious part of me that can’t wait to make plans that involve heading somewhere where we might get lost in a foreign language again. That feels almost strong enough to venture outside of getting through a day and into something that resembles the unrecognizable. I know every inch of that little boy like I have never known anything else in my life. And I’m happy to spend an afternoon wrestling the electrical cord out of his fingers before he pulls the lamp down on top of himself. I recognize those fingers. They grew in my belly for eight months, and then they rested on my breast in the hours after he was born, they cling to me the instant I’ve got him in my arms and they are happy little hands taking him places. They make me feel secure and ready to start the countdown to age two — as “terrible” as it’ll become, we’re ready for every inch of it, and I’m happy to eat those words come October 22, 2012.