Strength of My Children
February 27, 2016
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My son is a brave soul at twenty-two months. I take him to his favorite play establishment, and he unabashedly seeks out random children at any age to join him in a brief stint of play. It doesn’t seem to register that he still struggles to express himself as other toddlers his age do. He doesn’t care that a little girl of three tells him, essentially, to shove off in the direct way three-year-olds manage. He doesn’t give up, even when he is pushed out of an area with a subsequent door slammed in his face. He doesn’t whimper or seek my comfort, merely teeters on to another group or to find adventure by himself. When he isn’t having a wailing fit because a big person’s fork wasn’t placed on his tray fast enough, he is smiling and laughing, telling jokes.
Typical for his age, he becomes frustrated easily with tasks requiring more toil than he would like, but he plods until he manages success. I’ll watch him during times like these and wait for him to sign for help, but he almost never does. It’s only after his hard earned achievement that he will seek my assistance as a reward for his efforts, and I wonder how he came to be like this. And, I wonder if this is a prediction of his future.
I have not met my Warrior Queen face-to-face, but I can tell by her assertive movements and gestures that I’ve aptly nicknamed her. I feel in her presses against my hand that have almost no history of retreat that she is her own pillar of strength. My daughter wants to be a known presence, and for that she is cultivating courage in spades, and I envision her charging on in the world. I couldn’t say much more than that about my little girl, but I look forward to this pregnancy ending; eager to see what awaits.
I think of my children when I reflect on the events of the day. I hoped so ardently, and had such a cruel tease initially that my gestational diabetes would be managed by my diet alone. It doesn’t matter that my fasting and first meal glucose levels the last two days are hovering just over acceptable. It doesn’t matter that the rest of the day is perfect. I will be injecting myself with insulin beginning early next week nonetheless. I’m embarrassed of my reaction thinking of the near future. I’m embarrassed that I fell to pieces yesterday having to stick myself seven times before achieving success with my meter, knowing the sticks stopped causing me pain. I hate that I fear next week in the most core part of me. My hope is that I can muster my children’s strength and perseverance to carry me through my first injection; maybe then I can stand on my own.