Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Well Whadda Ya Know? I Don't Care.
This was my Enzo. I remember this day. He had just finished a bowl of homemade organic butternut squash soup and organic whole wheat pasta. You can see he is wearing a smart looking fisherman's sweater. It was from the GAP and cost a small fortune. I knew it was important for Enzo to be dressed well because people will form an opinion of other people based on their appearance and if Enzo was going to be the superior child I knew he could be he would need to appear as though he came from a good home. I'm not sure if you can tell but he is also wearing a thermal union suit under his clothes because if a person is going to be an environmentalist as an adult, I knew it was important to start them off at sixteen months old. The day this picture was taken was much like any other day. After this picture was taken I let Enzo breastfeed to take his nap and panicked that at sixteen months of age he was A) still breastfeeding and B) couldn't fall asleep on his own. During his waking hours I read to him and worried that I might not hit the recommended twenty minutes of book time that day. I built blocks with him and worried that his motor skills weren't getting the attention they needed that day and that he didn't seem to be remembering to clean up after himself very well. I'd force him to bathe and worry that his fit would interfere with his ability to create and carry out the schedule of a successful man when he eventually became one. I stumbled through books in foreign languages with him because I read that it was important to introduce those things as early as possible. I made him listen to lullabies in Spanish so he wouldn't pick up my poor pronunciation. He also HAD to be exposed to a little Mozart each day. I knew that was crucial for brain development. I would torture him by forcing him into his snow gear because at least one hour of outdoor time every single day is mandatory for good health. I would yell at Ariel for turning on the television in front of Enzo, as he just had to do every day like it was his job, because I was worried we would end up with a lazy brained fool for a son if he saw that glowing monstrosity! The short and skinny is I had done my research and I knew how to raise the perfect person. The smartest, most handsome, best mannered, most organized, neatest, healthiest, most successful human being ever to grace this Rat Race Earth.
When Enzo was eighteen months old he began therapy for a few developmental delays. When he was twenty seven months old he was diagnosed with mild autism. I was warned that he might never develop speech. I gave him a hot dog and a red ice pop after our meeting with the developmental specialist.
This is Israel. He has just come home from his fifteen month well baby check up. Before the appointment he watched four episodes of Dora the Explorer and one Backyardigans episode. In this picture he is trying to stuff macaroni and cheese (home made with american and cheddar cheese, white elbow macaroni, evaporated milk - whatever THAT is- and generic bacon) into his Nestle Quick. I'm not sure if his cup is BPA free or not. He also has some cheddar cheese popcorn and cheddar cheese potato chips he busily transferred from that black and white bowl to the stainless steel creamer pot you see on his tray. I don't know the brand of his shirt but his pants are GAP. I paid about a dollar for each of them at The Salvation Army. I bought everything they had in his size last Half Price Wednesday. Right now Israel is asleep with a boob in his mouth. Today the doctor told me that Israel continues to be in the ninetieth percentile for his height (just like Enzo was) and he's chunked up from the seventy fifth percentile to the ninetieth for his weight. This takes him from slightly skinny to perfect. The doctor also mentioned that Israel is developmentally advanced.
When I was just Enzo's mother I probably would have slipped someone a twenty just to hear them say the word, "advanced" but all I heard was, "delay", "delay", "delay". NOW the universe blesses me with these coveted words and I find that I don't give a rat's a**. I love both of these boys, not for the tricks they can do, but for the very core of their being. These are my sons (well two of my sons) and I will love them in occupational therapy, in the Olympics, with chiseled abs, with beer bellies, on Wall Street, on Crack Alley...I will love these boys no matter what and THAT my friends is success.