Out of twenty-two girls in my family full of cousins, and sisters, I wanted my children to be boys.
I had anything against girls; nothing at all. I just thought it would be fun to have two boys.
Now that I have them, I am not sure I should have wished for what I wanted and clearly got.
After a bout of rare cancer, following two children, I got “fixed.” No more children for me.
I suppose there is adoption, and surrogates, should I really want another child, but I am pretty sure at thirty-eight years old, my patience has decided to take a vacation and there is a very good chance it is not coming back.
I still find it fascinating when I visit a doctor, even though I tell them the only way I could possibly be pregnant is through Immaculate Conception, they still make me pee in a cup. Doctors, an untrusting bunch.
Perhaps they have a good reason for doing it, but I do not like to have my honesty questioned. But, maybe that’s just me.
Michael (aka Bruisie) and Robert (aka Spudnik) were born 12 months and 25 days apart. We wanted them to be as close in age as possible, short of having twins, which I had hoped for.
They were both born with autism.
Michael is higher functioning than Robert.
Robert, at four years old is developmentally delayed and barely speaks. Academically however, he tested at kindergarten level. Please do not ask me how that is possible. I often wonder myself.
Before the boys were born, I began a journal for each.
I wanted to memorialize the things they did, the things they said, and their milestones.
I did not care whether this seemed a little nuts. I have never really felt “normal” anyway.
As they say, I am unique, just like everyone else in the world.
Little by little, we began writing in the journals, hoping that one day they will enjoy reading about their childhood adventures, as much as we enjoyed writing about them.
Anyone who had a story to tell, or observed unconscionable, immature, juvenile, or funny acts of innocent, or not so innocent, accomplishments was welcome to write about them. We have parents, grandparents, and aunts writing in the journals.
Everyone’s perspective is recorded and nothing is made up.
The stories are funny, sad, precious, and silly.
I do not know if the things my children do or say are “normal.” I do not have anyone to compare them to.
As an individual, I have a warped sense of humor. It certainly does not help that I married someone whose sense of humor is even more twisted than mine.
Reading my children’s journals however, I wonder if a sense of humor is genetic.
I certainly hope not, otherwise as a parent, I am in a great deal of trouble.