Would you look at what my guy did to his perfect little face?
I’m not really sure how it happened, but I know that every one of those bruises corresponds to one of the slats of his crib. Either he slept with his face squished against the side of the crib, or he had a serious headbanging session in the middle of the night.
Then there was also earlier this week when I undressed him to find enormous raspberries all over his belly. He had given himself carpet burns from the industrial carpet at the church by trying to crawl away while Bear held his ankles.
Or there was once during Christmas time I turned the corner to discover he somehow managed to tear a bunch of my handmade paper ornaments off the tree and rip them into pieces.
I probably shouldn’t take pleasure in these kinds of things, but I can’t help myself. Even when it’s inconvenient or unpleasant, the appearance of normality is just wonderful.
I often get into conversations with other moms where they talk about how their kids make them crazy. The messes they make, the hilarious things they say, the crazy daredevil tricks they come up with, including creative ways to inflict bumps and bruises. For most of the time I’ve been a mom I was just an audience to these kinds of stories. Smiling and laughing, pretending I understand, knowing that if I was going to share a story about how Atticus makes me crazy it would be something like, “Oh it makes me so crazy when he fights me about putting braces on his legs!” or “I tried and tried to get him to drink from a cup and finally he pushed it away and made me spill it all over myself.”
I tend to think these stories fit the flow of the conversation, but they usually result in other moms cocking their heads and clucking in pity. It’s not the same. It’s not inconsequential. It’s not a funny little diversion from a happy normal life, it’s a peek into a life where what makes the average mom frustrated is the base level I operate at. That’s how it seems to them anyway, because they don’t always see how happy and normal we often are.
So when something happens, even if it’s bruises on his perfect face or destroyed Christmas ornaments, that actually fits with what the other kids are doing, I rejoice. I have a story to share! I don’t have to scare all the other moms with the ghost stories of disability. I have something inconsequential to say. He’s just as big a pain in the neck as all the other kids.