Thin Ice

We thought it would take time but turns out, my daughter is officially under construction again, working on baby number two.  After a horrifying ectopic pregnancy, it has been a scant ten weeks and now, she’s pregnant.  Last week, we are all tippy toeing all over this, even the doctors.  Everything looks normal, feels normal, we hope stays normal.  My adult child has become a human pincushion, getting blood work every few days, her doctor seems on top of this but she’s a total hormonal mess. 

She ate a mozzarella, basil and tomato sandwich for breakfast. She is suffering from heart burn and major cravings.

She is convinced this is a boy. 

My grandson.

The little guy whom I dream real dreams where I am taking him and his sister to ballet, hockey lessons and swimming lessons.  Watching Claudia The Baby hurriedly exchange her pink tutu and ballet shoes for pads and blades, grinning as I straight-faced, reassure my daughter, CJ’s mom, that no, no, of course there was no incident at hockey today. Everything was fine, just fine.  In my mind, in my dreams, I see CJ and my grandson standing quietly by eating the ice cream cones their mother wishes I would not buy them so often.  But what is life, I tell the kids, without a little ice cream?  Before I leave, I pull them both aside and tell them it’s not really a LIE.  That in hockey a pile up fight is not really an incident, it is just business as usual.  Not like this all happened at ballet or swim lessons I whisper to them conspiratorially.  They nod solemnly, eyes wide, little mouths smeared with ice creamy goodness and they grin in unison as they run off to home with their mom.  But not before Claudia The Baby’s sapphire blue eyes twinkle at me.  She already has my wicked sense of humor.  I wonder what color eyes my grandson will have, if this baby is a grandson.  Will they be emerald green like mine? If so, I pity the girls who hearts he will break someday.  Will they be a deep, thoughtful brown, soulful and searching?  The genetic odds are against it.  Most likely, he will have the icy blues like his sister or even my daughter’s lovely hazel eyes with their slight almond slant and deep flecks of gold.  An old soul’s eyes.

Will I look at him and see so much of myself the way I do with Claudia The Baby?

And my darkest fear, will he even make it into this world?

What we learned from my daughter’s brush with death from an ectopic pregnancy is that the making of a life is tenuous, many things can and often do go wrong.  I know that from fighting cancer too.  I just never thought to apply it to the business of making a baby until my own child nearly died trying to have another baby.  Because of this, I’m afraid for her to even be pregnant, at least until I hear her OB tell us that everything is progressing naturally.

And if this baby is a girl, our little Scarlett Rose?   I will be just as happy and thrilled.  Maybe this girl, I think, will actually wear the adorable sparkling shoes Grandmother Lisa is always buying Claudia The Baby. 

I gave up on the whole girly, girl shoe thing a long time ago with respect to Claudia but Lisa is sticking it out.  She keeps trying even though Claudia likes to act like the average pair of toddler shoes are searing giant nails of pain deep into her tiny, tender baby flesh. 

Claudia hates shoes so I wonder then, how am I going to get her on skates?

The answer of course is that I shall have to take up ice skating again myself.  It’s the only logical way I can think of to motivate her.  My oncologist won’t like this, the bruise factor alone will likely cause him to nix the idea.

So, clearly, I have to quickly master the art of not falling down while skating.  If I think of what I mastered when fighting cancer, I know I can do this.  Cancer is like that; if you beat it, you find yourself feeling invincible and fearless.

I can do this, me, the ice and two thin blades. 

I can’t think of better odds.