Getting One's Goat

What's Wrong with this Picture?

Everything looks pretty normal in this picture of our living room in the middle of the night, right?

Except check out what happens when you zoom in.

We were roused around 2:45 AM the other night to noises non-baby and non-dog in origin. It was a different kind of restless sound all together. And after this creature ran across my bare feet in the dark dining room, leapt around in the fireplace, and pooped on the globe, it perched statuesque atop the Bose Wave (a good place to sit if you don't want John to whack you with a broomstick) before summoning the guts to scurry out the front door.

The weirdest part is that Ellie & Zilch (and Freddy for that matter) slept through it all.

We're still not entirely sure what it was. Squirrel seems likely, although its tail was not very poofy. Bigger than a chipmunk. Cuter than a rat. Anyway, it's outside now. So long little friend.

When we found out at our 16-week ultrasound

that our baby would be born with a clubfoot, I remember walking with John back to our car through this haze of confusion, grief, apprehension, and even a little euphoria at having just watched his strong heart pound for over an hour while doctors and techs probed that strange,

dark, churning sea on the computer screen to make sure they had the correct diagnosis.

Neither of us had any idea what clubfoot meant or if he would ever walk, although we were quickly reassured by the internet that not only was clubfoot correctable, but that the likes of Troy Aikman, Mia Hamm, Lord Byron, Kristi Yamaguchi, and of course FRD's namesake, Pittsburgh Pirate Freddy Sanchez, had all been born with clubfeet. We also learned that the baby-soon-to-be-known-as-Freddy would have a difficult and demanding path that required patience, acceptance, ingenuity, and that strong heart we'd heard on the machine.

Well, we know that path is far from completed, but it seems right to take a second just to marvel at how far FRD has come. There have certainly been many hours of worry and uncertainty -- learning to hold a newborn attached to a piece of plaster that weighed almost as much as him, sending him off into a room of strangers to have his achilles tendon cut at 2.5 weeks old, fighting the teensiest feet in the universe into their first brace, agonizing over pressure sores and slipping socks, searching for the elusive footless pajama, countless trips to the UNC orthopaedic clinic, coming up with new ways to entertain an increasingly clever baby during the nightly bracing ritual --but somehow it still seems miraculous that just 14.5 months later, that twisted little foot now works just about as well as anyone's.

The cool thing is now we get to put him straight to work. Thank goodness SOMEONE mows the grass around here.

It's such a cliche, but I can't believe how true it is about the minutes being long, but it all going by so fast. Blink, and they're off.