Happy Halloween!
(If that's what you're supposed to say on this day. I never have been too sure what Halloween is all about).
So tonight I'm full of nerves and excitement and it's not because of ghouls and ghosts. Tomorrow we find out if Barney is allowed to reduce his Boots and Bar wear down to just 14 hours a day, instead of his current 23. It's been 3 long months of full time wear and I've had November 1st etched in the back of my brain the entire time. And here we are, just one more sleep.
I promised myself that I wouldn't get excited. There's every chance his foot hasn't made enough progress and will need to extend his 23 hour wear. I know, and have known for some time, that this is a real possibility. After the whole blister fiasco (which is still healing for goodness sake!), he had a total of 3 weeks of having the boots on and off throughout the day to change dressings and to let the air get to the wound. He was on the edge of relapse at the end of the 3 weeks and I beat myself up even more than normal.
So now, on the eve of his next consultant meeting, I'm a bit of a wreck! Could I be walking out of the hospital tomorrow with the boots in my handbag and Barney's feet feeling fresh air?? God, I hope so. I've almost convinced myself that life will be easier once he's got them off in the day but I'm kind of forgetting I still have a 5 month old, a toddler and a house to look after. Bad luck! But I'm interested to see how different Barney is. His hour of free time is so full of laughs and smiles and just being a very chilled baby. That's not to say the other 23 hours aren't but every happy, smiley moment is tinged with a frustrated cry or whine.
The weirdest thing for me though is that his visible disability will be gone. Currently everyone that meets Barney is greeted by the site of his brace and this leads to questions and conversations about Clubfoot and his treatment. Without the boots, Barney will look like every other 5 month old. No-one would ever know. I don't know how I feel about it, in all honesty. His casts and boots have defined him. My baby, the one with clubfoot. It structures my day. I'm constantly making sure he's comfy, supported, checking they're on right. They impact on the position I breastfeed, impacts on what he wears and I can't put him on my hip when I carry him. All these extra thoughts that I have to think throughout the day are suddenly taken away from me. Changing his nappy is a doddle when his feet are braced together and I'm actually getting used to my legs looking like I've done 10 rounds with a midget boxer.
Am I going to miss them? Miss who he is with them on?
Ultimately, tomorrow I will find out. Trick or treat seems pretty damn apt right now.
And remember, it's just a bloody foot.
Sam x
SuperBaby
Monday, 31 October 2016
Sunday, 9 October 2016
A Letter to My Little Clubfooter
Barney.
My blue eyed, beautiful boy. You came into our lives and changed us forever. Our wonderful gang of 3 became an incredible family of 4 and you exploded my heart beyond anything I could have expected.
I had my worries, like any new mum; Do I have enough love for 2? Will I be enough for you? Will your big sister cope? Will I cope? But you carried on growing regardless and, of course, I expanded as my fears started to slip away whilst excitement and love grew as quick as you were growing. Feeling your first kicks, those little butterfly kicks, made my heart melt as I promised to keep you safe. Just me and you.
I had dreams for you before you were even born, you know. No pressure. I don't really care if you're a brain surgeon or a bin man, not really. I dreamt of you succeeding to be just you; the very best version of yourself. Happy, content, proud and passionate. My boy, my precious little guy in the big wide world making his mark no matter how small, but a mark nonetheless. I'm not saying that your diagnosis changed any of that. If anything it made those dreams stronger. A desire burned in me as your protector to make absolutely sure those dreams were yours.
We were told at the 20 week scan that you had Talipes. I had never heard of it before and quite clearly this was written all over my face as the sonographer said 'Clubfoot, your baby has a clubbed foot'. Ok. Clubfoot. That's ok. I'm a bit of a stubborn soul, you'll come to learn this as you grow up, and I was cool as anything listening to how severe your foot was looking. I can take it, tell me everything, I'm a tough cookie.
Only I'm not.
I blamed myself for a very long time. Deep down, I still do.
I'm not special, Barney. Honestly I'm not. I'm not that strong either. I cry. A lot. But I'm yours and you can be damn sure that nothing will ever stop me doing my absolute best for you. I'm not going to lie to you, it's been bloody hard. It's been terrifying, incredible, relentless and tiring. You cry, you scream, you kick to get your boots off, you sometimes sob throughout the night, you tense and you moan but you smile and you grin and you make it all ok. I know you're in pain sometimes, especially with your blisters and sores, and I know you're uncomfortable. But I don't stop until I know you're ok. You sleep next to me each night so I can take the weight of your feet on my belly, comfort you when you wince and cuddle you tight when you need me. I massage your feet every night when you have your hour of freedom and kiss them before they go back into the boots. I revel in watching you splash in the bath with your sister and the pure joy across your face as your legs move independently of each other.
But what you don't see, Barney, is the pride and the admiration I have for you. You have learnt to roll over months before you should even be contemplating such a daring move. You try to crawl and are desperate to sit up unaided. I watch you trying these new skills over and over again and I see your smile when you succeed. You're just you. Despite having a label and despite being restricted both physically and practically, you're just a normal 4 month old baby giving your Mummy the run around. And we're doing ok, me and you. We have our bad days and we have our amazing days. One day you'll protest about your boots and the next you just giggle as I strap you in.
And those dreams are still the same. And you've no reason not to achieve anything your heart desires. You'll walk and you'll run and you'll no doubt stomp as you reach your teenage years. And I'll love every single step, my darling.
After all, it's just a bloody foot.
Mummy xxx
My blue eyed, beautiful boy. You came into our lives and changed us forever. Our wonderful gang of 3 became an incredible family of 4 and you exploded my heart beyond anything I could have expected.
I had my worries, like any new mum; Do I have enough love for 2? Will I be enough for you? Will your big sister cope? Will I cope? But you carried on growing regardless and, of course, I expanded as my fears started to slip away whilst excitement and love grew as quick as you were growing. Feeling your first kicks, those little butterfly kicks, made my heart melt as I promised to keep you safe. Just me and you.
I had dreams for you before you were even born, you know. No pressure. I don't really care if you're a brain surgeon or a bin man, not really. I dreamt of you succeeding to be just you; the very best version of yourself. Happy, content, proud and passionate. My boy, my precious little guy in the big wide world making his mark no matter how small, but a mark nonetheless. I'm not saying that your diagnosis changed any of that. If anything it made those dreams stronger. A desire burned in me as your protector to make absolutely sure those dreams were yours.
We were told at the 20 week scan that you had Talipes. I had never heard of it before and quite clearly this was written all over my face as the sonographer said 'Clubfoot, your baby has a clubbed foot'. Ok. Clubfoot. That's ok. I'm a bit of a stubborn soul, you'll come to learn this as you grow up, and I was cool as anything listening to how severe your foot was looking. I can take it, tell me everything, I'm a tough cookie.
Only I'm not.
I blamed myself for a very long time. Deep down, I still do.
I'm not special, Barney. Honestly I'm not. I'm not that strong either. I cry. A lot. But I'm yours and you can be damn sure that nothing will ever stop me doing my absolute best for you. I'm not going to lie to you, it's been bloody hard. It's been terrifying, incredible, relentless and tiring. You cry, you scream, you kick to get your boots off, you sometimes sob throughout the night, you tense and you moan but you smile and you grin and you make it all ok. I know you're in pain sometimes, especially with your blisters and sores, and I know you're uncomfortable. But I don't stop until I know you're ok. You sleep next to me each night so I can take the weight of your feet on my belly, comfort you when you wince and cuddle you tight when you need me. I massage your feet every night when you have your hour of freedom and kiss them before they go back into the boots. I revel in watching you splash in the bath with your sister and the pure joy across your face as your legs move independently of each other.
But what you don't see, Barney, is the pride and the admiration I have for you. You have learnt to roll over months before you should even be contemplating such a daring move. You try to crawl and are desperate to sit up unaided. I watch you trying these new skills over and over again and I see your smile when you succeed. You're just you. Despite having a label and despite being restricted both physically and practically, you're just a normal 4 month old baby giving your Mummy the run around. And we're doing ok, me and you. We have our bad days and we have our amazing days. One day you'll protest about your boots and the next you just giggle as I strap you in.
And those dreams are still the same. And you've no reason not to achieve anything your heart desires. You'll walk and you'll run and you'll no doubt stomp as you reach your teenage years. And I'll love every single step, my darling.
After all, it's just a bloody foot.
Mummy xxx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)