For Naught ?

SLIM JIM

 

Not only does my first child, Jimmy, weigh only three lbs. 2 oz.  when he finally leaves the warm home he's had in my belly for eight ½ months, he looks like a long, not fully cooked noodle. I turn my head when I see a nurse cleaning him up, getting him ready for the family showing. None too gently, she washes away my blood and I am grateful. Had she not been so adept at her job, Jimmy would have looked like a long strand of spaghetti with too much marinara sauce all over him.

 

The whole scene fades quickly into darkness. When next my eyes can focus, I am in my room, propped up on two lumpy pillows. I smile to my family and Bob's. Not one of them smiles back. Thru my dry lips I squeak out, 'What is wrong with Jimmy?' Five or six family members say in unison, 'Nothing.' I stare at each one, glare hard and ask again, 'What's wrong with Jimmy?' My Bob smiles and tells me our boy is okay but is under weight and has to stay in the hospital for a few days until he gets stronger. There isn't much more to say. Bob's father puts a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon in my hand. 'Take good care of our grandson, Olivia, or you will have to answer to us.' Why I got snippy, I don't recall but have been told by my father I was rude when I replied, 'I don't need to answer to you, Bob and I will bring our son up the way we see fit.' Oh, yes, my father was painfully right.

 

My plans have gone astray. I am in such good physical condition, I am released from the hospital first thing in the morning, with nothing to hold in my lap except a potted fern from a neighbor and already wilting roses from Bob who has my small suitcase in hand and a pair of new soft, fluffy blue bedroom slippers for me. He laughs when he tells me 'You'll need them when you get up during the nights to feed and change Jim-bo- I now call him that. I not only take possession of the slippers, I get a nice, soft kiss on my cheek from Bob.

 

For an entire week, Bob drives us to the hospital where we can spend a few minutes with Jim-bo in the premie  section. He is full term but not quite strong enough to go home. I have made, unmade, re-made his crib too many times. The baby gifts we don't open, just pile in a corner of the big boy's room. On the ninth day, the first morning phone call comes in at 7:30. My heart starts to pound. Something is wrong. A familiar voice sing-songs a 'Good morning, Mrs. Crone. Your son is doing remarkably well, now weighs five lbs, 4 oz. and you may come get him when you are ready. When should we expect you?' 'As soon as I can call my husband and he comes for me, in about half an hour, we'll be there!' Speed dial. Speed drive, fire engine speed to our house and our family will begin.

 

While we already love our boy, life is dramatically changed. I weigh him every other day. Some days he loses a few ounces, seldom gets them back. Dr. Blacksburg, the esteemed pediatrician, insists on keeping a more accurate weight chart of Jimmy than I do and I'm angry about that, take him in to Dr. Blacksburg three times a week where his calibrated scale shows almost the same numbers I submit. Jim is a little longer than the average child his age, somewhere about an inch and a half. This too must be considered. Bob and I, and our parents who try their best to not bring up the subject, fear he will be a skinny, very tall person, be put on the side when his schoolmates form groups, choose teams.  We can't help ourselves but really try hard to visualize Jimmy at five, at 10, growing more solid, having lots of friends, finally winning an Olympic medal for back stroke swimming. They are all sugar-coated pipe dreams that have to suffice as Jimmy grows taller, never much heavier–and sadly, has no brother to emulate., nor a sister.

 

For Jimmy's third birthday, Bob and I have planned a surprise birthday party for him. It won't be one of those grandiose, pony and clown afternoons but will be pleasant with games, ice cream., Shreck movies on a DVD.  About 12:30 Jimmy's first guests arrive. I am surprised the mothers come too. I don't feel good, go in the bathroom and throw up.
I tell Bob what happened and we both have a surprise. I am preg again, thrilled to death but worried. Our son has been a concern every single day of his three years with us. What will happen if our next baby needs the care we have given Jimmy? Dr. Blacksburg is glad to see me. I am not totally thrilled seeing him again.

 

By the fifth month the world can tell how preg I am. My belly suggests our baby will weigh fifteen pounds. I'm put on a strict diet which is nonsense because I continue having morning sickness that should have stopped by the middle of the fourth month. My intake would make Mahatma Ghandi look like a big eater. Bob has hired a nanny to be with Jimmy until our daughter is born. We could see Barbra, that will be her name, wiggling around when I had my ultra sound. She is big, looks like she might walk her way out of me. The coming birth may be caesarian which is certainly not something I want to go thru, but then again, maybe I'll sleep thru it. I don't

 

Barbra weighs in at nine lbs, 10 oz., is soft and very cuddly. Jimmy adores her, admits to his nanny he wishes he were not so tall and skinny. Conchita listens to his lament, finds an almost new blender under the kitchen cabinet and begins making a concoction of sweet cream, strawberries, peaches, chocolate ice cream every day except Sunday that is her day off. Bob makes it for Jimmy who in one month has gained five pounds.

 

Bob and I are just about positive that Conchita's formula is infused with magic. I tell Dr. Blacksburg how nicely Jimmy is doing, how he is no longer a bean pole and how beautiful Barbra is. There is no doubt in my mind he is genuinely happy for our family. He hands me his new office card with his new address. I thank him, wish him luck in his new place, make a big deal out of putting the card carefully in my wallet and leave.