In exactly two weeks, Atticus will be one year old. I am pleased and, I’ll admit, more than a little surprised to be able to report that he has not only survived the ordeal but, against great odds, has grown into a beautiful, happy, and thriving toddler. Shocking that we managed it, really, given that a year ago the nearest thing to childcare experience I had was seventeen years of looking after a house cat. A very difficult house cat, mind you. A feral maniac who gradually mellowed into a delightfully cantankerous and, in the later years, occasionally incontinent companion. (RIP Mrs. Speakleton. I still miss you every day, you batty old thing.) Which is to say, I was probably only slightly better prepared to care for another human than Michael who had only ever had pet turtles.
We took a couple of classes in the weeks leading up to the birth. The first was a general workshop that mainly covered labor and delivery with a bit of diapering, swaddling, burping, and the like tacked on at the end. We ladies spent a lot of time squeezing handfuls of ice chips which was somehow meant to simulate the pain of contractions while our husbands massaged our backs and shoulders. As anyone who has actually given birth can tell you: cold hands and active labor don’t feel much alike. In fact, I would say that being bitten and clawed by my crazy, angry cat every time I had to take her to the vet probably did a lot more to prepare me for the horrors of vaginal childbirth than all the lamaze breathing and prenatal yoga classes in the world could have done. But the obstetrician tells you to go to the class and so you go.
The other class we attended was infant CPR and first aid. I knew this was a mistake the minute we walked in. I was in full-blown panic mode before I’d even had time to write my name on the little tent card on the table in front of me. Maybe some people can casually chat about the about the friend whose baby “just stopped breathing” one day or how their toddler walked out of the bathroom licking a disposable razor like a lollipop while blood poured down her chin, but I am not one of those people. I sat, white-knuckled, through the various videos about choking and drowning in toilets and all of the other horrible things that no one should ever try to imagine happening to their child, just counting the minutes until we could go home. And while some people may have gone home that evening feeling prepared to handle any emergency, I walked away with a stomach ache and an irrational fear of Chapstick*.
Perhaps it is, at least in part, my paranoia that has kept him alive this long. He’s certainly not doing all he could to help. He spends most of his time stumbling around the house like a drunk man, often not looking where he’s going and, frequently, holding a blanket over his head. This week, he started saying his first word over and over again. And I’m not at all surprised that his first word is “uh-oh”.
*The Chapstick cap, it seems, is the main cause of choking death in children. Followed closely by hot dogs, popcorn, and pretty much anything grandparents have in their cabinets.
