Ready for Summer

We won’t have any pregnancy news or not news until July 31st, and there’s nothing left of the World Cup but the parades, so let’s turn our attention to the children in situ.

At Max’s therapy appointment today, the therapist and I were talking about the progress he’s made in the last few months, which is substantial. He’s still far, far behind his age cohort, though, and even at this rate of gain he’s falling further behind. When I made a comment to that effect to the therapist, she gave me a ‘falling behind? What the fuck are you even talking about? What, exactly, is the destination we’re racing towards here?’ look. I apologized by explaining that while for Frida we were hoping for either the Olympics (rowing or soccer, not gymnastics,) or a plush academic fellowship (science or fine arts, not psychology,) with Max we just want him to be happy. I then stumbled to add that we wanted Frida to be happy, too, of course, goes without saying, I’m saying it just to be clear, yes, we really want her to be happy. And well adjusted. And happy.

***quick question – they won’t have the internet in 20 years or so, right? So it’s ok to write this stuff about today’s one and two year olds? k thx.***

Today’s exchange gave me a bit of a fluster for two reasons. 1.) I don’t usually think of myself as someone who is so clumsy with the finer points of NOT COMPARING YOUR GENETICALLY DIFFERENTLY ABLED CHILDREN and 2.) it didn’t really sink in until today that the thrice-weekly therapy we’re doing with Max is to help him be happy now. We’re not working on walking so that he can maximize his future potential, we’re working on walking because walking is fun, and running is even better.

 

You know what’s nice about seven Euro? It can buy you a decent haircut. Sorry, Max, for spending those €7 on pâté. This is what I did to him yesterday.

I thought I could finish up with the clippers. I couldn't.

I thought I could finish up with the clippers. I couldn’t.

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