overrated potter

"You're too stressed. You're anxious. You're passing all that on to the baby. You need to relax."

"He cries/wails/won't eat/won't sleep/sleeps too much (the list goes on) because he senses you're tense." 

This is what I have heard time and again in the last few months from loved ones, acquaintances, doctors and others about the state of affairs regarding my youngest son, and no (I hate to say it), they're not wrong. Here in an attempt to find peace and calm, or at the very least, release, is how I really feel.

Three months ago a precious boy was born to me. Andrés. He's perfect in every way except that he was born with a clubbed left foot. I didn't know much about talipes equinovarus, or clubfoot, until January 25th when Andrés arrived. I saw his crooked little foot at the end of a perfect little leg and thought, "Never mind, it's no big deal, it's just from being all smushed up inside me for nine months. It's going to straighten out on its own and this little warrior baby of mine will prove the world wrong once again." Eight months earlier, we weren't sure he would make it at all, then a week or two before his birth, we had a scare about his heart and heard news of hernias when he was two days old, all of which turned out to be false alarms, and my hormone-charged, mothering-inspired optimism from those victories was not to be tarnished by one, tiny, crooked foot. Babies are resilient, right? Rubbery even! He can do this. Jerry Googled 'crooked foot' the hour after Andrés' birth and knew we were in for a harder road than I had imagined; he wasn't wrong.

At three weeks of age, Jerry, Lucas and I took Andrés to a pediatric orthopedic doctor who explained in great detail why his foot was not just crooked, but indeed a clubfoot and that it would need immediate treatment. He patiently explained that Andrés would be fitted with a series of full leg casts until his foot was moved into the correct position and that he might possibly have surgery on his Achilles tendon, after which he would receive another cast and then orthopedic boots and a bar which he would wear 23 hours a day, every day, until he walked, and then every night until he turned 5. He told us that eventually he would have a perfectly straight foot, might even one day be a professional athlete, his condition 100% treatable. The last part was good to hear but at the mention of casts and boots, my heart shattered. Shattered and shook like a fine crystal wine glass smashed on the floor. My eyes welled up with tears for the pain and discomfort that I knew Andrés would go through with the casts on new little leg just learning to move and wiggle and now immobilized for the foreseeable future. My heart broke again as I imagined Andrés' babyhood, like I had known it with Lucas, flying out the window. I tried to hide my own distress, walking back and forth and out of the doctor's office as my eyes welled up time and again. I tried to keep my sadness and shock from Lucas who didn't understand anything either, and on that day, I began to try to keep my feelings from the littlest member of my heart who had been thrown unwittingly into something none of us could have imagined.

As I tried to calm myself and be strong for my family (because that's what Moms do, right?), Andrés' perfect little leg and crooked foot were bound in a thick, heavy, plaster cast from groin to toe. Huge, hot tears dropped on the doctor's examination table as I tried to calm a tiny baby who wailed and squirmed. The tears didn't stop easily as we thanked the doctor and paid our bill, but I tried to suck it all down and be strong, show fortitude for my family, for Andrés, for Lucas, for all of us who would have to understand that this baby was just a little bit different from what we had imagined, for my husband who was a rock and did his best to be stronger than all of us, for me, because if I truly let go that day, I was going to lose it in a bad way. That day, we brought Andrés home that day in his first leg cast, the plaster staining his car seat, his leg hanging out of the onesie I had dressed him in that day because it no longer fit in his clothes. I had been convinced we were just going to see that doctor for a consultation and next steps and instead left there with a new reality and a harsh blow to my optimism.

I was in shock. It's the only word I can think of to describe how I felt. Post-prengancy hormones raging, sleep deprivation at its best, trying to juggle a new baby and a 3-year old and recover a sense of routine and normality, and now this. How was I going to do this? How could I stand by and watch my new son suffer?? How could I ever console him enough? Tell him that it was all going to be ok when I didn't fully believe any of it? Why me? Why us? I cried that night and the next morning like I have never cried before. Lucas, was awesome as always, and said that now Andrés had a super hero leg, that it would be super strong. Jerry cried with me but was also the first voice of reason that I have since heard from so many other loved ones, "He's going to be ok. This is fixable. We're doing the best for him and his future. We just need to do this and get through it. He's going to be ok. This is the less of all possible things; we're lucky." I tried to believe it, to truly own those thoughts but they were elusive and shallow compared to how I felt. I told myself I would allow myself one day to wallow in self pity, in sadness and then move on to the happiness and positivity. I've tried.

That day after the doctor's office, I woke up to a new son. I don't know if that sounds good or 'PC' or what but it's the truth. You imagine your baby, his life, his body, his everything for nine months and then in one blink of an eye, it becomes something else. I found different clothes to fit over his cast. I endured strange looks from ladies in public bathrooms who probably thought I abused my child and had broken his leg. I found new ways to carry him, slept with him on my chest when he wouldn't stop crying from the pain of his foot in a new position, relearned how to change a diaper with a leg in a cast. Each Tuesday Jerry and I would sit in the shower with Andrés in a little green tub while we waited for the plaster to soften and then peel, pry and cut off his cast so that in the afternoon I could take him to get a new one. And at every move, I smiled and put on a strong facade for all of us, but most especially for Andrés.

He only needed four of those casts and hasn't needed the tendon surgery. We're lucky. I know that in my heart, but it doesn't make things any easier sometimes. I was elated when the doctor said on the fourth visit that he would be fitted with the bar and boots. No more casts! His skin would breathe, his leg free! Yeah right. I had no idea what those boots and bar meant. His legs are essentially tied together. In the casts he had at least been able to move his legs independently and now they were a single entity. The next two days were hell. Andrés didn't sleep except for on me. I couldn't figure out how to hold him to breastfeed, I couldn't put him in his carseat without him screaming, diaper changes were a new adventure and again, reality changed into something new. And through it all I sucked down anxiety, stress, sadness and disappointment and hid it behind big, optimistic smiles. I believed the upbeat words of encouragement and found comfort in loved ones support, but the ball of nerves in my stomach grew. I researched carriers for Andrés that would allow him to use his bar comfortably and allow me some independence in caring for Lucas and him, I found new clothes again and cut off the feet from pajamas. I figured out how to carry him differently, again. I learned how to bind his feet in his boots, pulling tight so that his feet wouldn't slide out of them. I subscribed to chat forums and Facebook support groups. I answered curious kids' questions on playgrounds and imagined myself an advocate for this condition which is apparently so common but had never shown its face to me before.

These days things are easier, I admit. We've gotten into a bit more of a groove and the boots and bar are a fixture in our days and nights. Our new reality is the norm and I think we're all adjusting well, but still...

I don't do well with the crying it out when it's time to put Andrés to sleep, it breaks my heart to think I need to make him suffer more. I walk into stores and see baby booties and feel my heart break just a little knowing I can't buy any for him, though I know it's silly. I am envious of babies in strollers with their legs and feet bare in the heat, though I only just admitted this to myself yesterday. There are days I hate the stares and others when I welcome the questions. Breastfeeding is not much fun these days with his bar, but I'm coming to terms with the fact that I might not be able to do it as long as I'd like and I guess that's ok. He gets bigger and bigger and I love it, but I realize that the way I carried him before sometimes doesn't work or feel good for either of us. I smile with Andrés as he smiles and gurgles at me and feel joy that he's growing strong and able. I see him lift his bar high with strong legs and abs and start to want to roll over, but I feel guilty that I don't put him more on his tummy because he can't move his legs when he's like that and cries. I worry constantly that he'll develop more slowly or not enough because of the bar, even though I know he will. My heart fills with love when I see Lucas' love for his baby brother and his complete acceptance of how he is.

I know we are ok and lucky, I do, but I am a roller coaster in any given moment of hope, love, guilt, worry, anxiety and happiness. I try to stay calm and be strong. It's all I know how to do for Lucas, for Andrés, for all of us. I am trying each day to find a happy way through this all and find the positives while I deal with my own tiny disappointments which I have learned to accept and understand as something that is ok too. I know it's not the worst case scenario and feel guilty for sometimes feeling like it is.

I know I need to relax, but the next time you tell me, just know that I am trying.