I was just listening to the radio; a scientist was explaining the ways in which trauma leaves black, greasy fingerprints all over a person’s mind and body. She was listing off differences between the traumatized and the neurotypical on and on and on, and I was slumping down in my seat, looking out the window, thinking about Cricket.
Much progress has been made in repairing my emotional connections to these local boys. It didn’t take too awfully long to repair things with Joey, since we were securely attached going into my depression—but Kit and I had barely begun, and so it took some time. He spent some time critically undernicknamed, although we’ve made some progress on that front; he looks remarkably like a baby Bing Crosby, so we often call the kids Toot and Bing (Joey’s been our Toot since he wasn’t yet crawling). It hasn’t hurt, of course, that Kit has been sleeping better and looking better and growing into quite the little cheerful bug since I got my diet straightened out. I’m not ready to call myself recovered, but I’m in a better place, and you can tell it just by looking at my twosome.
I want to thank someone for her advice—I believe it was Gretchen—because telling me to ask Joey whether he wants to be my baby or my big boy was such an excellent tip. He chooses baby every single time so far, but seems comforted when I rock him in my arms and put him into the Moses basket, all the while saying things like “Oh, my baby, my baby! Do you want to lie down, baby Joey?” He’s had a long, rough stretch, but the last few days have been easier, and I’m hoping that he’s turning a corner to greater competence, confidence, and joy.
We’re into the time of year when we have an excuse to send things to Cricket at least once a month: Halloween card, Thanksgiving card, Birthday gift, Christmas gift. All of these things are in my closet, ready to be written or wrapped and sent. I don’t really know how he’s doing—Ruth has been posting on Facebook more often than usual, but not about him. Even if everything’s going well, we won’t see him again until next year . . . and of course the Mister and I don’t think that we will see him next year, or for years. That may very well be unfair, but the pullback from his parents has been steady, and now that he’s old enough to say hello on the phone or dictate a card, those things are completely out of the question. I’m knitting a sweater that would be the right size for him next year (and the yarn is a green called “Cricket”), but I haven’t mentally committed to sending it. Maybe none of this is new information. I’m just letting words dribble straight out of my brain and down my arm.
I don’t know whether it’s SAD, but this last third of the year has been bad for me for as long as I’ve been paying attention, since long before I lost a son in December. I’m turning thirty in a few days, but it doesn’t feel like much of a milestone—I’ve been telling people that I’m thirty for about a year and a half to save time. But my family seems minded to celebrate, and I am very touched. We’ll take the kids out to dinner the night before and eat breakfast together the day of. I will try to get pictures so that I can share them here, so that you can see how lucky I am in my family.