I can't believe I'm just remembering this now.
On the fourth day after the head bashing, my mom took Tiny Boy and me to urgent care. I needed to have my forehead stitches removed, and I thought the baby might need stitches of his own (he ripped a chunk of skin off his finger while playing in LG's room, under grandma's supervision). We must have looked a sight. Me, with my two black eyes and ripped up nose and swollen face, stitches and the lovely (not) red-rimmed eyes I called the "red eyeliner," holding a baby with a huge bandage on his hand because a small bandaid just wouldn't stay on.
Of course I needed to boob him in the lobby of the urgent care. And the woman across from me started crying and got up and went to the bathroom.
Who knows why she was crying. Maybe she was a victim of domestic violence. Maybe she was having a crappy morning for reasons unrelated to being at the urgent care. Maybe, I thought, maybe she saw me and my baby and thought I want that. Maybe she was a fertility patient. Maybe she was having a miscarriage.
She couldn't have known, of course, just how much my own small son was wanted. All the emotional and physical and intellectual and financial resources that went into having him. How desperate I was for him, just a year ago.
I wanted to ask her if she was okay.
But I didn't.
I'm not sure why.
But I didn't.
On the fourth day after the head bashing, my mom took Tiny Boy and me to urgent care. I needed to have my forehead stitches removed, and I thought the baby might need stitches of his own (he ripped a chunk of skin off his finger while playing in LG's room, under grandma's supervision). We must have looked a sight. Me, with my two black eyes and ripped up nose and swollen face, stitches and the lovely (not) red-rimmed eyes I called the "red eyeliner," holding a baby with a huge bandage on his hand because a small bandaid just wouldn't stay on.
Of course I needed to boob him in the lobby of the urgent care. And the woman across from me started crying and got up and went to the bathroom.
Who knows why she was crying. Maybe she was a victim of domestic violence. Maybe she was having a crappy morning for reasons unrelated to being at the urgent care. Maybe, I thought, maybe she saw me and my baby and thought I want that. Maybe she was a fertility patient. Maybe she was having a miscarriage.
She couldn't have known, of course, just how much my own small son was wanted. All the emotional and physical and intellectual and financial resources that went into having him. How desperate I was for him, just a year ago.
I wanted to ask her if she was okay.
But I didn't.
I'm not sure why.
But I didn't.
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