Look at those beautiful paws. Ford’s healing well after six months, and any scars will be ghosts by the time he gets big. I know I’m also healing well, and that any residual scars will join their ropey brethren, but right now I’m just doom-looped from lack of sleep. In between heavy fretting and unsettling dreams last night, I worked my way from the community service days in Chicago through the presidency of the Harvard Law Review in David Remnick’s new Obama bio. Tonight, I’m considering some prophylactic Xanax at around 10 and a march through the early Michelle years.

More tomorrow, when I’ve had a little rest. Sleep sweet, all…

Ford turns one next week, and it’s like he went from babe in arms to leaping toddler monkey overnight. One day, he was dragging himself along the floor like a commando, the next he was standing, then climbing, and now jumping in place with shrieking glee. He hasn’t taken his first steps yet, but I would not be surprised if those steps were taken at a run. Walking seems too sedate for the neph; he’s got places to go and things to poke.

I like this shot because for such a smiley, exuberant kid, he’s also got a serious side that comes out in pensive moments like this. I’ll post some classic Ford grin-porn for the scattered relatives next post, okay?

Ford is splint-free for xmas, after one of his casts fell off unexpectedly:

One rushed trip to Omaha later, and he’s now free to move his wrists and elbows. Pretty good present, eh? Full motion in four joints—yay! That’s Ford’s beloved Papou in the background. You know him as Quiver.

Ford had his one week check-up today and everything is healing nicely, the doctor says. Apparently “healing nicely” is board-certified plastic surgeon code for “freaking gruesome.” I’ve included pictures after the jump, but don’t you go running off to click through, because I have a little ranting to do before we get there. That’s right, I’m still in the P part of the MS, and right now, P stands for pissy.

I will spare you the work whine, but you know the worst thing second worst thing about breaking up with someone? It’s the loss of the shared joke. Suddenly, the one you used to spend all day instant messaging with is off limits, and when something happens—something tectonically loopy, something sublimely awful—you no longer have the person with whom you most want to share. I could tell you guys, I suppose, but that would mean snarking on a public stage. Word could get back. And I want my schadenfreude without fear; I just want to crack wise, not make people cry.

Oh, but it’s so good bad delicious. And I am just really sad apocalyptically crabby that I have no one to  tell. (more…)

I am on day six of this month’s version of PMS, complete with weepy cramping, crampy weeping, and lots of ragey raging. It’s quite something this go-round; I marvel at how much a hostage I am to hormones, when I’m not slamming drawers and muttering darkly under blankets. The only thing there’s not enough of is the actual bleeding part, where I take more Aleve than is generally recommended, then finally begin to feel like a human being with a durable self-concept and unflagging self-worth. (The dogs chose to sleep downstairs two nights ago, so I must really smell off right now).

All of this is to say that I am far too edgy to write up a proper post, so I’ll share some Ford pictures instead, to soothe and amuse us all. Most are pre-surgery, some are after. Ford’s mostly fine, even though he’s wearing clubs on his paws and his hair is acting up:

Perhaps his parents could weigh in what’s happened here: Is it the heartbreak of hat head? Or is his hair just having endless PMS, like me?

The neph is one of God’s Little Adaptables, having mastered the art of dragging himself across the carpet with both arms in casts, like a very enthusiastic sea turtle on the beach, determined to reach the ocean. He goes sockless these days for the tactile thrill, exploring different textures with his feet. Give him another week, and he’ll be picking up cheerios with his toes.

Here’s what his fingers looked like last week, before they separated the webbing:

I can’t wait to see them all healed up.

Here’s Ford chewing on his buzzard puppet’s beak:

His subtle fuck you really suits my mood. (Just think, he’ll be able to flip a proper bird as a result of his surgery; teenage Ford will thank us for that.)

Man, I wish I had a buzzard to gnaw on.

Images via Dad’s flickr

You may have heard: my nephew Ford is pretty much perfect. At nine and half months old, he’s full of joy and will and busy motion. He knows my name, my voice on the phone. He knows I’ll dance to funk with him, read him stories, play for hours on the floor. He knows I’m good for cheerios, that I’ll build towers for him to topple. He know that if he squawks, I’ll squawk back like a loving echo. He knows I’m one of his reliable, every day people. Not quite his parents or grandparents, but his besotted auntie, the one with the funny faces. And I have to believe he knows he’s loved by every one of us, even right now, as he’s fast asleep in surgery.

Two plastic surgeons (one for each hand) are operating in tandem this morning to release the webbing between his middle and ring fingers. Even in the delivery room, we knew the time would come. And we’ve all been dreading it: the anesthesia, the cutting, the hard splints he’ll have to wear for weeks, preventing him from doing his favorite things (sucking fingers, flinging toys, exploring the contours of his world). His hands are what bring everything to his mouth, so I foresee a couple weeks of my hands, our hands, doing that for him.

For some reason, what’s happening to his fingers isn’t as disturbing to me as the fact that they’re taking a graft from one of his solid little thighs. His hands will be whole and perfect after the surgery, but his leg has to give a little to get them there. I’m sure it’ll all balance out in the end. I’m sure the scar will be barely noticeable, once he’s healed and grown. I’m sure we’ll all see it and remember, though, because that’s what it is to love a child; everything marks you.

The surgery is up in Omaha, and we’re in for eight or more inches of snow over the next 24 hours, so there are plenty of places for worry to percolate. The dogs and I are staying with my parents, so I can be closer to Ford and my sister when they get back tonight. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I finally got up and went downstairs at 5 AM. Both my parents were up already and we’ve all been rattling around since then, restless, foggy, nervous.

So please spare a thought, a hope, a prayer for my family today. Think of the neph, who will only remember what we tell him of this time. Think of his parents, who will never forget. And think of me and my parents, the president, vice-president, and recording secretary* of Ford’s fan club, sitting snow-bound and hopeful at my growing up home.

*That’s me, in case you hadn’t figured that out.

And that gang is, apparently, the MerMen. See how his ring finger is fused to his fuck-you finger, all the way to the top knuckle? Ford’s got syndactyly, or webbing, on his left hand—a cross-generational gift from his paternal great-grandpa.

He’s also got webbing on his toes, which came straight from mom.

“Well, he won’t be able to wear rainbow toe socks,” I told my sister in the hospital, and this is about as much of a difference as the webbed feet will make to him. I remember that Amy had a bad month in the seventies when toe socks were in fashion. Mom decided, and rightly so, that if one of her girls couldn’t wear them, none of us would. And if I wasn’t entirely gracious about that decision back then, I would be now. In fact, I did not buy toe socks when they reappeared a few years back, in solidarity with my sister (and also because I can barely tolerate flips-flops, but then, taking a stand is not always entirely without self interest).

As for the hand, they’ll probably get that snipped, which will be something he’ll hear about later; one of those unremembered oddments we’ve all got—this vaccination scar, that funny-shaped birthmark, the brace you wore until two because your feet were wonky.

When Ford’s attention span is longer than one enthusiastic nipplesuck, I will tell him he was born with superpowers, and that we could tell from the webbing. And also the cuteness.