Three is a magic number

Three years ago today I was sitting at home, next to an over-enthusiastically and, as it went, prematurely and redundantly inflated birth pool, wondering why, in the name of sanity I was still pregnant. Anyone who has ever gone ‘overdue’ will know and understand well the boredom, angst and at times, downright desperation I was feeling as twelve days (and five sweeps) came and went since my due date.

Another five very long, waddling, days later, having admitted defeat on our hopes of ever having a lovely home waterbirth, advised to turn our backs on nature in favour of the dreaded ‘medical intervention’ and into a frantically busy London labour ward we went. The next day, on a beautiful sunny Spring afternoon, an Orange was coaxed into the world via an unwelcome mix of prostin gel, an alarming looking knitting needle contraption, a lot of uncalled for rummaging and uncomfortable monitoring and a vacuum cap.

Oh and I can’t forget the visit from an apparently high profile female politician when I was mid-hypobirthing breathing in the garden suite, overlooking the Thames. A photo opportunity you say? Erm, no thanks…

An apparently healthy, shouty little Orange was born and I was instantly itching to get out of there. No breathing difficulties, no jaundice, no terrifying APGAR scores or SCBU monitoring, no IV antibiotics, blood tests or phototherapy lamps. No painful shuffle, pushing a tiny yellow person in a plastic tub to sit in a corridor and wait for the latest bilirubin results. No plastic toast and curt ward staff. No week-long incarceration with wailing, snoring, post-natal room mates with fingers missing who had just arrived on a plane from somewhere terrible to give birth in the UK (I kid you not).

The next morning we were home. After our experience with Beep, which brought with it all of the above horrors and more, it felt like we had dodged a bullet. But as the last few years have shown us, Orange turned out to be a little more complicated than that.

In some ways, the gentle unfolding of Orange’s ‘swan’-ness has been a kind and easy way to adjust to a more unusual way of life. Unlike many swans, there was no premature delivery, no early surgery, no long months in the NICU, no bomb-drops from paediatricians about syndrome like features. Just an unhurried dawning of small but significant realisations.

Before Orange, I was pretty ignorant and afraid of disability. If I had known, from the start, the difficulties he would be facing, I expect fear and despair may have entirely swallowed me up. As it was, we had some blissful early weeks to bond, attach, and settle in to being a family of four before the shadow of doubts and worries drew in.

And now, almost three years on, our lives are entirely different to how we left them, that Spring morning in London town. My Bugaboo Cappuccino perfect world slowly shattered, replaced piece by piece by something far less magazine glossy, more unapologetically extraordinary. My rough draft for the future has been torn up and cast aside but now sitting in its place is something far more grounded, spirited and at times terrifying, but fulfilling. Tougher, yes. But whole.

Next weekend, Orange will be three. As we draw closer to this milestone, the boy inches towards the threshold of being considered by society as officially ‘disabled’. At three, mobility allowance becomes a given, as does his Blue Badge, a public label of disability. Being unable to walk, at aged three, marks him out no longer as a slightly large baby in a buggy, but as a child who needs a wheelchair to get around.

Turning three, for any child, is often a pivotal moment when the word ‘baby’ vanishes from family vocabulary. This is no different for Orange, and us. Although the hallmarks of babyhood remain very much a part of our lives they are moving into a different realm, that of disability rather than infancy. Nappies, wheels, a bed with bars, spoonfeeding at mealtimes…We still hope that Orange will move on from these things but if he doesn’t? Well. That’s ok too. I know now that we will manage and still be the people we always were, just with a different perspective.

Orange may not yet be capable of the independences of a typical three year old but I hope, this year, to be able to give him some of the freedoms enjoyed by his toddling peers.

A pre-school place.
Friends.
Liberty to learn, progress and be an increasingly autonomous person in his community.
And, perhaps even a birthday party invitation or two…

With Orange, and all his many mysteries, each birthday is loaded with more than its fair share of celebratory excitement, but also weighted with the consciousness that time continues to roll forwards with little consideration for him, trying his hardest to catch it but slipping slowly further behind.

But we cannot sift experience and take only the part that does not hurt us. We are learning patience, and witnessing miracles, almost every day with Orange. And as we crash through the floodgate that is Orange turning three, I know that this unplanned adventure, this unimagined life, will not be the shiny, polished, picture-perfect portrait of performance I once aspired to, but will be sunshiney and happy all the same, with many a magic moment.

 

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