Almost Waving. Also, William Wallace is kicking Che's A$$.

Whatchu Talking About Willis? (Too soon?)

I heard a story, once, about a man who was waving at the beach, from where he was swimming in the ocean. Those on the beach waved back, thinking he was so friendly, and he waved back at them. This continued for a while, until the people on the beach got tired of waving back, started to grumble about how this dude just KEPT waving. Sheesh. Then the man disappears in the surf. Turns out he was not waving, but drowning. (I am sure it is more eloquent in the story. And then a boy throws a starfish onto some footprints or something.)

This story has always stuck with me, because the phrase "Not waving--drowning" has exemplified my struggles with clinical depression. I put on a good face--W calls it my Game Face--and can smile and fake it with the best of them, but ultimately I am just drowning, hoping someone will notice and come save me. Because I am almost completely incapable of not waving, of calling out, of asking to be saved.


And these past two weeks have been so full of people wanting to save me, to help me, to lighten my load, that I have been rendered motionless, lest I burst into tears at every moment.

When faced with trials, I am pretty good at not asking "why me?" but, rather, "what do I need to learn?" And I am gobsmacked by the realization that I need to learn to accept help. These are my top four phobias:

• Asking for help
• Asking for directions
• Answering the phone
• Down escalators

So you can imagine the level of discomfort I have been facing the past two weeks. Because not only have I had to be helped, people wanted to CALL ME TO TELL ME THEY WERE HELPING ME.

My little Cosby Kid.

It is only because I am too sore to go to the mall and ride an escalator that I have been saved from a complete emotional collapse.

But I feel like I am coming out of it--this haze, this feeling of struggling against the waves that want to pull me under. I even returned a phone call today. (Just one. Don't get your hopes up.)
And I wanted to thank you for your prayers and your thoughts and your concerns. I can feel them. And I need them. WE need them, W and Jooj, and The Dude and I. (Still trying out nicknames. Nothing seems to stick yet. Maybe when he is home?)

He is off of the bili mat, out of an isolette, regulating his own temp, and getting bigger every day. His poops are legendary around the NICU. He still needs to finish his bottles but, as W puts it, "If there was a way I could sleep and eat at the same time, I would totally do that too." So maybe it is a genetic sort of laziness. And he is still blond. Hence the reference with the dollar signs in the title. (So there is hope for you, Carolyn, that Stew will never show up in your children.)

I love you guys. And I hate pumping.
And I still am not answering the phone. But thanks for calling anyway. It makes a difference to this one.