A few weeks ago, Littleone had a cold -- all the littleones did. But now our Littleone has a fever. As Miss I just got over pneumonia, and Littlebun had RSV pneumonia when HE was a Little one . . . I'm more than a little worried about the fever. And there's nothing I can do about it from here.

NOC

Hooray! Littleone has just been issued NOC.
Now we're waiting on family court to grant us guardianship. That will probably take two months, but could be expedited because ours is a special needs adoption.

When I hadn't heard anything about Littleone in over a month, I sent a panicked email to our specialist and I couldn't think about anything else (including work) all day. Our specialist replied that she will be preparing updates -- photos just came in! -- and sending them out to us shortly. So now I can't think about anything else (including work) because there are updates on the way.

Rocky II

Littlebun was playing capture the flag while Miss I climbed on the playground afterschool. Mothers of the other boys chatted as I watched Miss I climb -- not too high, not too fast, you're just getting over pneumonia, don't set off your asthma . . .
All of a sudden Littlebun was running towards me, hand covering his mouth, eyes wide. Blood dripped between his fingers. For the first time -- and I desperately hope last -- Littlebun had been punched in the face.

Miss I stayed with my friend while I ran Littlebun home. Inside, I immediately set to cleaning his face to see the damage -- Littlebun was most concerned that he would need plastic surgery again (see April 2006 for that fun story). His lips were both split, but no harm was done to his teeth and no stitches were required.

We returned to the playground to fetch Miss I and to show his friends that all was mostly well, but by the time we arrived the offender had already been removed from the situation.

Littlebun was really shaken. He wasn't angry. He was sad. He spent much of last evening trying to figure out how he could have prevented it, unhappy with the possibility that the violence had been relatively unprovoked (he tagged the child, consistent with the game's rules). If it were his fault, he could find a way to be sure it would never happen again.

I was shaken, too. Something really horrible had happened to my baby, and I was right there and didn't prevent it. And now I wonder if I mishandled the aftermath.

Then of course came the questions of response: Should I have said something to the other child's mother? She had seen it happen, and was apparently as shocked as anyone else. I neither scolded nor assuaged her guilt. All of my attention was on my son and the gush of blood.

But in my own lack of outrage, did I convey to Littlebun that it was okay -- even inevitable -- that he would be the victim of violence, when I was trying to deal with the practicalities (finding the source of the bleeding)? Did I accidentally convey to Littlebun, to the other mothers, to the other child involved, that "Boys will be boys"? Littlebun says no, and he has a clear understanding of what "poor impulse control" means (thanks to another child in his class), but even so . . .

Today he has two fat lips and he's missing the spring in his step and I wish I could do something to help him get it back.

Sometimes I feel like a child

We saw dh's dad on dd's first bday.
We were already at the restaurant, and they beamed when they saw us through the glass. I didn't know until it was too late that my face had fallen.
Dad asked "What's wrong?" as soon as they were in the door. I wanted to say "I don't want you to die." Instead I said "I'm having a hard day." They attributed this to knowing that Littleone was turning one without a family to celebrate her, and this was part of the reason that I was feeling so glum. But mostly, I was struck by the disparity between Dad's outward appearance of health and happiness and my awareness of what is happening inside, and the childishness of my response. They were having a "good day" optimistic about the potential for this relatively new form of chemotherapy, and all I could say was "I'm having a hard day." My hard days must seem trivial, and if they loved me less they might have wondered how I could possibly say "I'm having a hard day" side by side the "hard days" he has.
But it was a lot better -- I think -- than "I just don't want you to die."