|"This button. Right here!"|
That is where it gets some people. He doesn't LOOK sick. Most days he isn't. There are little things that stick out to anyone watching closely, though. At just a few months shy of his second birthday, he weighs less than his sister did at ten months old. He is just under the third percentile for height. His head, however, is charting at a whopping 30%. See? I told you he's smart.
The newest addition to our cast of misfit characters, we'll call him Pater Pueri, fiercely insists that there is nothing wrong with him, just like he fiercely insists that he is PP's own son, blood be damned. I love him for many many reasons, but those two may have been what sealed the deal for me all that time ago.
He's not incorrect in that assertion; there is nothing wrong with our son. Our son seems to be experiencing some... technical difficulties... if you will.
I posted a bit ago about the result of our visit with the genetics team, an appointment that was a year and two months in the making. There were no definite answers. That status... remains. Frustratingly.
Tonight is no different as frustration goes. I'm up, feeling unwell myself, and to occupy myself away from my own gastric distress, I sit and play armchair diagnostician, constantly asking myself "Okay, if this is another dead end, where do we go next? What do we try? Who do we see?"
My little Bug. He was conceived under less than stellar circumstances, and he hung with me through my body's silent but bloody coup d'etat, to be delivered unto me purple and surly-faced, leaving me utterly and endlessly smitten. His young life has been eventful, and will continue to be. My young life will grow gradually older, striving every minute to do for him what I simultaneously spend every minute doing for his sister: making sure that there is only the shadow of the universe's chaos that could sentence me to watching my little loves whisper away.