The first thing I did after getting the new-and-so-fucking-not-improved news on Friday was go on an Emotional Etsy Rampage, spilling out the contents of my PayPal account (and gnawing at the edges of Instant Bank Account Tranfers) in exchange for things for the new baby. Wall decals! A custom mobile! Upcycled vintage galvanized storage containers! Bibs! A necklace that I've had in my favorites list for a year but never bought and today is the day! That necklace is mine! Suck it, sadness! Suck on shiny things and die!
I stopped only after Noah brought me the Xbox remote and a long, involved (and HIGHLY EMOTIONAL) story about a giant snake level on the Harry Potter Lego game and he couldn't finish the potion and Hermione is stuck in a corner and keeps getting blowed up by the snake and you need to help me, and I was briefly consumed with resentment that really? Really, Noah? This is the biggest challenge in your little life right now? This is the crisis that's reduced you to tears? A video-game snake? MADE OUT OF VIDEO-GAME LEGOS?
Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I Pain-Olympic'ed my own child. It was a really pround moment in my parenting history.
(I helped him. The snake level WAS pretty hard, and I felt much better after beating it. Haaa, stupid Lego snake.)
(And before anyone hassles me about letting a five-year-old play video games: He can only play after he earns a certain number of stickers on his behavior/chore chart. And also, I CANNOT EVEN REALLY PRETEND TO CARE RIGHT NOW.)
Over the weekend I took Noah to karate, then shared a bagel and orange juice with Ezra. I dragged everyone to IKEA. I assembled random shit from IKEA. I hung clothes and onesies and organized diapers and blankets and then tossed everything back into the center of the room to start over because I just didn't like how inaccessible that basket of baby hats was. Ezra spiked a fever for no real reason at all but I prescribed Motrin and cuddles with me, me, meeeee anyway. I comforted Noah when he left his beloved Actual Real-Life Harry Potter Lego figure at his friend's house, because that was, in fact, a pretty rough tragedy for him, no matter what you compare it to.
And then today I spent the morning in a child pyschologist's waiting room, filling out 400 behaviorial checklists while Noah went through day one of the three-day evaluation for ADD. Or whatever it is. Was. Will be.
It still hasn't sunk in. It. You know. The news. The now, the what's next. I knew -- oh, I KNEW -- we'd reach this point, and for some reason I'd naively thought it would be a relief to put the chemo and the transfusions and the ER visits behind us. I mean, maybe it is. But not really. There's new grief and new mourning and yet he's still here and we're still here and there's karate and swimming lessons and bagels and fevers and evaluations and assessments and onesies to wash and things to hang on the nursery walls. There's life. Whatever it is. Was. And will be.