It’s strange how all the tactless comments and stares and annoying advice never made me flinch, but this pinches me inside and leaves me feeling vaguely unsettled
As told to Faigy Schonfeld
Some try for words of comfort, some pretend all is fine and dandy, some cross the street when they see me.
But I don’t care.
Believe me when I tell you he has the face of an angel. He has the slanted eyes, okay, but they are enormous and blue and brilliant. He quickly learns to giggle and he alternates between giving us smiles that can thaw icebergs and mellow, wizened gazes. He is small and cute and delicious. And most of all, he is mine.
It isn’t all roses. In the first few months of his life, he undergoes surgery to repair a hole in his heart. There are many adjustments as reality dawns and therapists make their way in and out of the house and I try to juggle it all, along with laundry and bruises and missing homework sheets and all the joys of raising five regular kids besides.
But for the most part, I savor his babyhood. He is my sixth child and I am edging toward 40. And so I revel in the fleeting beauty of cuddles and love and midnight sweetness, of tiny undershirts and silky, newborn skin. And the kids are amazing, ecstatic with the new baby and awfully proud.
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