Fear and loathing

While I lamented the endless screaming that accompanied Graham’s trip to the doctor earlier this week, I neglected to mention one rather important outcome of the visit.

Graham has an appointment with a pediatric orthopedic specialist next month.

He has an appointment because he is pigeon-toed and by that I mean that his toes point in, causing his legs to flail out like little windmills when he walks and especially when he runs. And while that is a relatively common condition among two-year-olds, the doctor agreed that further scrutiny would be wise given that it is quite severe in his case.

He might grow out of it, but it’s best to get it looked at and see if it can be corrected before he gets older, she said. You don’t want other kids making fun of him.

Her words stopped me cold.

Making fun of him. Other kids. Making fun of my Graham.

It is terrifying, this thought that anyone could possibly reject the gifts my precious child offers. That anyone could diminish him just for being so wonderfully, uniquely himself.

Years ago a co-worker talked to me of his two teenage daughters. They are identical twins, but one was more outgoing and was thus considered prettier and more popular by their peers. They had come home from a dance in tears, he said, after the extroverted one informed her quieter sister that the young man she last danced with had made gagging faces behind her back to the amusement of the other kids.

I’d like to **@$#** kill that kid, he said. I’d like to rip his *%#@** face off.

I remember being surprised by his vehemence, by the rage in his face. But now that I’m a parent I understand it completely.

We will send our children out into the world and the world will sometimes be unkind – it is ever thus. But still, the idea that the apple of your eye, the heart of your heart, will be rejected or humiliated even, and that you are powerless to stop it, is sometimes too much to bear.

I imagine my Graham, running joyously out into the world with his dear, little legs flapping like windmills. I imagine his peers laughing and him stopping short, blinking in surprise to have been met with ridicule and derision.

And just the mere imagining of it produces a frustrated, impotent rage that gnaws at my chest like a demon possessed.

But in addition to my rage there is fear.

There is fear because despite having endured this and this, I’m afraid that the very hardest part of parenting still lies ahead.