Today, my husband and I set off for a lovely pub lunch on, what was bound to be, one of the last warm Saturdays of the year. We nabbed a big table in the beer garden of pub up the road. My husband ordered our food and went to fetch a newspaper whilst I sat and bounced May on my knee.
May requires endless bouncing. She has discovered her legs. She loves nothing more than flinging herself up and down, up and down, up and… you get the point.
At the next table, three couples gathered. Each had an infant in tow. All were about May’s age. It was a kind of celebration of sorts – the kind friends have over nothing in particular except the fact that they love each others company. I could not help but watch them. Or, rather, watch their babies and their hands open, exploring.
My heart sank. My lovely darling girl bounced flamboyantly on my lap, but I could only think about her hands and how they remain mainly fisted.
The food took almost an hour arriving. An hour wherein I watched those roly-poly babies across the table. By the time it arrived and the waitress asked if everything was alright, I practically yelled my response, “No. The food is late and my husband has three lettuce leaves on his plate. Three lettuce leaves does not constitute a caesar salad!”
A ridiculous outburst. I did apologize to her.
It’s only been 4 1/2 months after all. Only 4 1/2 months to get my head around the idea that my child is brain damaged. I hope these posts lean more towards the positive, but sometimes, like this week, it is hard to avoid the weight of the matter.
Still, she is happy. A happy, bouncing little girl. And, it is impossible to remain miserable with a chuckling baby in your lap.