At TJ’s six month appointment, it was discovered that this poor boy was suffering from a double eat infection. I had totally missed any signs that he was suffering because he is just a happy kid. He laughs hard, smiles easily, doesn’t scoff when I put him in a stroller so I can fill out my lottery number selection. No quick picks for me! I have a system!
He has sprouted two bottom teeth. Slobbering on my face is a gateway to ripping off my cheek Cape Fear style. He gnaws on anything within reach–scratch tickets, Camel cigarette points, bedazzled money clips. Wait, that is a lie. I don’t have money clips. But I am 5,000 points away from a Joe Camel beer cozy! Dreams: I have them!
He crawls now. He slowly paces on all fours toward anything with a cable or is worth more than five dollars at the pawn store. My baby! Already casing a house, even if it’s his own. I’m not looking forward to installing babygates, especially since we didn’t do the first one correctly and have since covered up the patch job Mike did with Nathan’s huge butcher paper kid art. There is use for all those sheets of abstract expressionism which I initially thought illustrated a Tuscan villa with glistening pools, olive groves, vineyards and suites that offer in-room hot stone massages but Nathan brusquely corrected me with, “No, it’s not. It’s an airplane.”
During his appointment, his doctor announced TJ’s name. “Timothy James. It just sings.” It’s a musical name, plays like a needle on the vinyl grooves of my heart, two names in perfect cadence with a beat in my chest that only grows louder and louder each day.