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“Any chance you and your husband are related?”



Well there’s a question you don’t hear every day.


So, the latest Aspen adventure took us to a geneticist at Levine’s last week.

And while nothing new was ascertained, other possibilities were raised when attempting to understand her poor feeding and limited growth.


At present, this includes Russell-Silver syndrome as well as blanket short-stature and growth disorders that are far ranging and could ultimately mean she is predisposed to being “abnormally” small and needing to remain on a feeding tube for quite some time.


If you asked me how I felt about any of this right now, I honestly couldn’t say.


Because I’ve been on this road for awhile now, I’ve been able to contain some of my feelings (at times) and compartmentalize when needed. And ultimately embrace where I am with this monkey, today.


Therefore, I’ve learned to oscillate between general acceptance (and let’s be clear, when I say acceptance I mean mostly a simmering frustration/confusion/rage/fear kinda vibe) to full on focused fury meshed with that fear that has me diving head first into various rabbit holes in search for understanding.


And some days, I honestly feel really confident that this peanut of mine will be justttt fine. The runt of the litter, the slow grower of the pack, at some point and in some way, we’ll get off this feeding tube and she will figure out how to do what is needed to, well… grow.


However, on days like Friday, when I’m sitting in the geneticist’s office trying not to cry, I’m swallowed up in the fear of what could be. And what this may mean for Aspen… and the rest of her life.


I of course know I can’t worry about any of this right now. Right now when I literally could squeeze her until her head popped off because she’s so fucking cute.


So what can I do?


Welp, I could totally pick a random rage fight with my husband who hopefully isn’t my long lost cousin.

I could get ferociously frustrated at my other girls for, I don’t know, not picking up bunny turds in their bedroom.

I could also snuggle up with with my confusion and fear and spend countless wasted internet hours looking at what any one of these possible diagnoses mean.

I also could just shut off and shut down, because that often feels easier I guess.


Let’s be honest, I’m going to totally do one of those or umm, all of these, on any given day.


But fuck it, I’m also going to do the other things too.


Like, pull my Pen close and smell the crap out of her because that smell never gets old.

And pour a drink and sit by the fire with my husband because, well, winter! It’s here. Finally. And I love it. And I love him. Even if he is my uncle.

And take my girls out to pizza solo to catch up on, I don't know, literally everything, because despite their failure to pick up bunny poop they are pretty amazing kids growing so damn fast.


We all know the “control the controllable”, “live and let go”, “live in the moment” blah blah blah type adages.


Are they true? Without a doubt.

Do they do anything for me during a time of insane-driven weakness? Hell no.


But when I can put my simmering frustration/confusion/rage/fear pot of crazy on the back burner, they really do reveal just how much would be lost if I let these feelings take over.


I have no idea what road my monks is going to travel down.

Then again, these last couple of years have shown us (abundantly) none of us really do.


And sure, knowing whether her smallness indicates a disorder or condition at this point would be information that ultimately altered our course...

It wouldn't change today.


So I'll continue to search for answers, continue to seek acceptance, continue to settle in with all the challenges and all the experiences that bring us both pleasure and pain, and mostly, importantly, forever embrace our shiny lucky Penny.


-B xo


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