My kids are the love of my life. Even with all they’ve put me through, I’m still their biggest fan and most ardent supporter. And I don’t mean that they’re bad kids or have caused problems due to behavior of which I’m in denial. Oh No. They’re much more devious than that. I have to give credit where credit is due. You see, they’ve decided to kill me. They apparently decided this a long time ago. They’ve been working on it ever since. And it won’t be an easy death either, oh no. It will be done ever so slowly. Their weapon of choice? Pure emotional distress and worry. You see my kids have a habit…a gift really…for getting seriously hurt in the oddest ways or somehow getting the strangest illnesses. I know that I am blessed with my kids, but come on! I really should’ve bought stock in Clairol years ago.
For starters, both of my lovely, lovely children wanted to come into the world early, really early — as if they were late to some party they thought I was having without them. It was all I could do to hold them back. Of course neither one minds being late to anything now. Where was that consideration years ago!?
Did I mention that my son, my dear and thoughtful son, decided to stop breathing when he was 8 weeks old? And for a brief moment after I found him, so did I. That was just loads of fun, I can tell you. But no worries I’m extremely happy to say — Jake survived this and the rest of his childhood just fine and is now the Paul Bunyan (with a mohawk) impersonator we see today. Although occasionally he does still like to test my stress level by coming up with a new injury or illness. I guess he just wants to keep me on my toes.
Being the little hell raiser that my daughter is, not only did she make herself known prematurely through her in-utero antics, but she made the introduction about as dramatic as humanly possible. Although we never really talk about it, she was one half of a dynamic duo, her possible twin brother or sister being lost early on. This was Thanksgiving weekend in 1998 and instead of worrying about which brand of cranberry sauce to serve or how fattening the mashed potatoes were, I was instead consumed by the terror that I had lost Sarah. And this with a house full of company. You see, we didn’t know about the possible twin so our thoughts were only directed at the idea that there was just one solitary troublemaker brewing in there.
Luckily, a thorough and savvy doctor convinced us to do one last ultrasound before going through with whatever terrible procedure has to be done to tidy up a miscarriage. Lo and behold, a heartbeat! She was still there. Had we not gone through with the ultrasound we truly would have lost her. I give thanks to that doctor on a damn near daily basis. He wasn’t our regular guy so there might be an element of divine intervention within his timely arrival.
Needless to say, that weekend saw me hitting the lowest lows I’ve ever experienced immediately followed by the highest highs. My emotional range went from the Mariana Trench to the peak of Mt. Everest over the course of a mere 48 hours. It was exhausting. And like with her brother (she’s such a copycat), it hasn’t stopped since.
An interesting and fun side-note: since Sarah’s birth, the coincidences about her marvelous existence were plentiful. For instance, her Zodiac sign is Gemini, the Twins. Go figure, right!?
Not impressed? How about this?
Ever since she was born, we’ve called her Bunny or more often Mrs. Bunny. She has her father to thank for this. There was absolutely no reason behind this name choice. But Bunny just seemed to fit. It sounded right. That’s always been a good enough reason for me. To her utter dismay, I sometimes slip up and still call her Bunny – which normally just garners an eye roll, unless we’re around her friends, in which case I’m always surprised when I don’t fall on the floor dead. I catch my breath waiting for that moment, but luckily it never happens. At least not yet. Well, anyway, on to the coincidence part of this meandering digression — one day when she was a bit older, we were eating at a Chinese restaurant that had placemats with a diagram of all the Chinese zodiac symbols. I’ll give you one guess on the year Sarah was born in. That’s right, the year of the Rabbit. Sometimes truth truly is stranger than fiction. This story being the perfect case, at least in my mind.
I know without a doubt that my kids are supposed to be on this earth and while it took a little work getting them here I couldn’t be happier. Although I could do without the hospital trips for weird symptoms that stump the ‘ask a nurse’ line or the inevitable “they did what to break their finger!?” that I know I’ll hear from strangers and family when they see the splint. Yeah. I could do without that bit.