Two days ago I took June to the pediatrician to have her little nose checked out. She's had persistent congestion since she was sick about a month ago, and within the last couple days it's started to interfere with her eating to the point where she can't quite get a good breath, starts gagging and loses interest early on. Not good, we thought. So off we went.
The eating has been the only disruption. She sleeps through the night, is extremely happy, active and growing. Doc stuck various instruments in June's nostrils, ears, mouth and armpits, June bobbled around with her perpetual gummy smile, and Doc ascertained that she's totally healthy, save for a little nasal inflammation that is lingering thanks to the weather. Some prescription nose spray was doled out and we headed home.
Doc also said that she has narrow airways, so she might just be a congested kid. I had a feeling that might be the case. Freaking genetics, I thought. My parents have named and given a precise time table to every stage of a cold. My dad has combed the earth in search of the perfect facial tissue. His find? A Brawny paper towel. My siblings and I have collectively put the children of Pfizer's allergy drug makers through college. I imagined June as a curious kindergartner, looking at family photos and piecing together her hodge-podge traits to see who she favored.
"I got my dad's eye shape," she'd say, "His strong profile and smile."
She'd turn a page of the family album and sigh, spotting a photo of her mother in mid-sneeze.
"My mom gave me her constricted nasal passages."
When I was pregnant, Greg and I would lie in bed, hands on the undulating belly, and imagine what our little girl might look like.
"I hope she gets your skin tone," I'd tell Greg. "and your mouth and eyes."
"I hope she gets your height and hair," he'd reply. "and your ability to fix toilets."
The hindered Leonard respiratory system didn't factor into our fantasies.
It's been pretty fascinating watching this baby grow and develop traits reminiscent of one or both of us. Neither Greg nor I look a whole lot like our baby photos. You know how there are some people you can see photos of as kids and they look just like they do as adults? Not us. So I don't think June strongly resembles either of us now. But others say differently.
I hear from people that she's a combo of the two of us; my brother Matt swears she's the head of Greg, while my father-in-law looked at baby photos of me and said if he didn't know better he'd think they were June. She definitely has her dad's eye shape and his profile. My dear friend Beth said, "I hate to tell you this, but she's got your coloring," knowing how I've grappled with the fair skin.
Whatever this formula is, it's working. I'm a little biased, but I think she's one adorable kid. And her coloring, already, is WAY better than mine.
There are also the intangibles. Greg and I are both happy, easily contented people and I'm seeing similar in June. She loves being outside, like her dad, and gets a big kick out of watching me make a fool of myself, something I can certainly appreciate. She's strong and active, smiles constantly, and has a hearty appetite. Be it genetics or just the way the chips fell, we are a couple of lucky chromosome donors.
It might be time to begin stockpiling the Kleenex, however.
Greg just walked in, looked at her snoozing in her swing and said, "She looks like both of us when she sleeps."
He's right. She does. But she's snoring like a grown man, which is all me. But if she doesn't care, I don't either.
No comments:
Post a Comment