Dear Tate

Dear Tate,

Tomorrow is the big day. The day we get your helmet. The day I'm dreading. The day my heart is breaking over. I've tried to live life for the past several weeks, and especially for the past 9 days, as though tomorrow isn't truly reality, more or less a terrible recurring dream. I've tried to avoid thinking of it, but who am I kidding? Every time I look at your sweet face those thoughts creep in to my brain and undeniable twinges of sadness, anxiety and guilt come over me.

I've told your Dad a couple of times that I think I would have been more prepared for this had it happened to Connor. Not that you're my favorite. Not that I wish that it had happened to Connor. Not because Connor is accident prone (however maybe we should invest in a helmet for him too). Maybe we would have been more prepared since Connor had a rough and shaky beginning. By age two months he had been hospitalized, released, and hospitalized again. He had undergone a spinal tap, poking prodding, IVs, etc. and all while Daddy was preparing to go to Iraq and Mommy was flying solo.

By your age, 8 months, he had been on medicines for his severe GERD. He had done Esophageal pH monitoring, an Upper GI Series, and an Upper Endoscopy. He was "healthy" but had spent a lot of time going to the doctor and specialists. Our extended family was being plagued with illnesses and health issues. By the time your big brother was your age I had become so accustomed to rolling with the punches I found myself prepared to receive less than perfect news every time we visited a doctor. You've only been to the doctor for required preventative care appointments- Weight/Height/Immunizations and we were out of there. I wasn't prepared to roll with the punches this time, and after that January visit, I felt like I was jumped in a back alley and sucker punched.

Yesterday you awoke from your nap with your first ever fever. Your temperature was 101.6 and after Tylenol and Motrin I finally got it down to 99.2, of course this was after you were awake from 10pm to 1:30a.m. This morning, you still have a fever. No other symptoms. Just a fever. I can't help but wonder if this is your way of telling me that you're feeling anxious, worried, scared, nervous, uneasy, upset. Maybe it is? I know I am feeling all of these things and more. Rest assured child, you are not alone.

I'm worried for the way that people may look at you. Will they stare? Will they comment? Will they ask inappropriate questions? Will I be able to restrain myself from harming them if they do? Will I have the words to tell them that there's nothing WRONG with you? Will I be able to keep from crying every time someone looks at you with sad eyes or eyes of pity or looks of  "Thank God it isn't My Child"?

I've tried to bottle my feelings of overwhelming guilt about this. Mothers tend to internalize and become overwhelmed with guilt whenever anything happens to our children. In looking at photos, this condition (while far less obvious then) was present in you as a newborn. In discussing with Doctors, I'm learning more and more that while sleep positioning (and overall positioning in general) play a role in this, so does fetal development in the womb. When I spoke with the CFS I told him about my low lying placenta. I shared with him that you were head down, with your head cushioned upon my placenta in all 6 ultrasounds performed from weeks 17 up until your birth at 37 weeks. The way it almost seemed as though you were using it as a pillow. This could have begun the process of your plagiocephaly. I keep wondering what I could have done differently while you were inutero.

Then there's the days where you fell asleep in your car seat while I was running errands. I didn't rush to take you out of it. Or rush home so I could remove you. I finished what needed to get done and then I took you home. Was that to blame? Or when I had my gallbladder surgery- I wasn't able to hold you as much as I wanted to those first few days. Was that the culprit? Or maybe if you weren't such a steady sleeper that slept through the night at such a young age. Maybe we should have woken you up more to reposition you? Connor never liked his swing, you loved yours and would play in it constantly. Maybe I should have limited your time there? I DON'T KNOW. I'm struggling because I just don't know what I should have done differently. Maybe nothing, but I can't help but think that somewhere, someway, somehow I failed you.

I hope you know how much I love you and how overwhelmingly sad I am about this. I never for one second wanted or imagined anything in life being harder for you or your brother. I never imagined you having to go through something such as this. My heart is broken for the misconceptions people may have about you. Will they see you as I see you? As a healthy, special gift from God? Or will they just see you as a "special" child? I think a mother's love is the nearest thing to Godly love. We see our children as perfect, just as He overlooks the bad things we do and loves us and sees us in His eyes. I pray people will always see you through MY eyes.

"Mommy Troy" (your Godmother) wrote this as a prayer request while your loving Godfather was away. It stuck out to me that she said she didn't want to wish away the time, but wanted to try to make the most of it. That's what I'm struggling with. At this point in time, you're only 8 months old and to think that you'll be wearing your helmet for 6 months (3/4s of your life span!) feels so very heavy and daunting. I don't want to wish away the next 6 months of milestones and firsts and life, but 6 months is.... 6 months.

I cried  knowing that last Sunday was the last Sunday for 6 months I will spend rubbing your hair as I try to coax you to sleep during mass. I've have found tears stinging my eyes when strangers comment on your cute little curl that wildly sticks up right now. After tomorrow afternoon no one will see your cute little curl for 6 months. I'll only see it for a few minutes, three times a day.

I've shed tears when I've thought about this summer. Knowing I can't take you to the pool to swim with your brother because your helmet can't get wet. I've cried thinking that in all of your first birthday pictures we'll be celebrating with you wearing your helmet. I thought of getting everyone helmets instead of party hats- maybe that will ease my sadness when the time comes. I'm just so sad for you and for this experience.

I know it could be worse. I know it could have been MUCH worse. I know that and feared that. I am thankful every second that it wasn't worse, but as I explained to someone: Telling someone that broke one of their arms, "It could have been worse. You could have broken both of them." Doesn't take away the stinkiness of having a broken bone in the first place. Knowing it could be worse doesn't make me hate it less. Doesn't make me more okay with it. Doesn't make my heart stop from breaking. Knowing it could have been worse makes me say extra prayers of thanks, but doesn't stop the thoughts or emotions that come about for better or worse.

My sweet son, I pray you feel the overwhelming love I have for you and the joy you have flooded my life with. I pray we get through these next six months unscathed and you come out with the cutest little Tater Head there is. I pray that we are making the right choice for you. I pray I have not let you down. I pray I can make you proud over the next six months, and the next 600 years. Most of all I just pray for you. I pray that I am worthy of the blessing and gift you are to me, your daddy and your brother.

I love you my sweet boy.


Love,
Mommy