when it rains.

I get drenched.
That'll teach me for leaving the house completely ill prepared...
no umbrella
no waterproof mascara
no cute wellies with sweater arm inserts

I'm soaked to the bone 

and nauseated
and NO I'm not pregnant. 
Made sure of that today when I accompanied Gabe into the x-ray room. 
The thought of growing another baby scares me. 
Terrifies me so much that abstinence looks pretty good right now... palpable fear is such a better excuse than a lame headache.

I feel like teenagehood will be my moment to shine as a mother.
I don't do babies well.
I deleted and re-typed that last sentence 5 times.
The truth is hard to share sometimes.

And the truth is I make tiny and very trying babies. We're almost 7 months in and I keep asking myself, "when is this going to get fun? isn't this suppose to be fun?"
ouch!
Let's label this post as one that likely won't be shared with adult Gabe. He's experienced enough pain in his lifetime already.

I knew he was small, I just didn't realize he was that small.
I didn't realize that one Friday the 13th I would look down at a stack of lab requisition forms and see the words "failure to thrive" next to his strong name.

I try to convince myself that failure to thrive doesn't mean that I'm failing as a mother.
I try to convince myself that failure to thrive is just what doctors say to make waitlists go away.
I laugh when Gabe's health care card is treated like a shopaholic's credit card.
I make jokes when it takes 4 of us to hold him down
so much blood
I lose count at vial #7

The funny thing is, there's nothing funny or fun about this.
I don't do babies well.
Especially crying babies.
Crying babies that I don't know how to fix.
I love him so much.
So much that I leave him in his crib to cry alone.
When my arms can no longer hold the weight of him.
When my heart can no longer handle the sound of him.
I love him so much.

Today when the number on the scale stayed at 14 I knew. 
You don't need a PhD to know that babies are supposed to gain more than an ounce a week. 
In that moment I saw fear in eyes other than my own.
In the medical professional entrusted to fix him.

He'll be okay.
I'll be okay.
We'll be okay.

But if all's quiet on the blog front for awhile
you'll understand.
You always do.