Had the cake been shaped like my face or his mother’s, perhaps he would have clawed into it with both hands. This used to be really cute, a form of early affection, but now it just hurts. And I push his arms down when he goes for a cheek. He shakes his head “no” and smiles with only two bottom teeth showing, though he’s been cutting some more recently on top. I laughed the other day when he started shaking his head before he even reached for my face, like he was planning the attack, but also recognizing it would not be appreciated.
Our little girl, Addie, now 5, was a completely different baby. She was active, too, but she could manage to stay pretty still. She was not aggressive. And she would study an object. But Noah will either grab and bite or grab and throw. He is on the move, trying to climb over whatever crude barricade we put in the living room to separate the children’s play space. He notices everything and wants it.
Noah is not talking yet. He’s standing, but not walking. If you ask him to clap, he will. If you ask him to dance, he’ll rock his shoulders from side to side. If you hold him and walk around the house, he points at everything and grunts as if it should be new to us, too. Or maybe he’s just directing me to the next thing to grab.
He is certainly a boy — a helmeted boy.
For nearly two months now, Noah has worn a Tar Heel blue helmet to help reshape his head, which is flat in the back. He had torticollis, a fancy word for a stiff neck. It was a result of his position in the womb. And he always turned to his right as newborn, which led to a flat head very early in his life. We’ve taken him to physical therapy for his neck problem. And he seems to be pretty much over that, thanks to some pretty horrible stretches Jana has done with him. But the helmet remains. The doctor said it’s mostly a cosmetic issue now, though there are some potential problems without treatment. When considering the helmet, I thought about him as a teen, angry that we never did anything to correct the flatness.
So now he looks like a racecar driver, or a football player minus the face mask. He wears the headgear 23 hours a day. And if you put it in his hands after it’s been off, he’ll sometimes try to put it back on. He’s used to it.
We take him to the grocery store and he draws a lot of looks. Like all parents, I think my child’s remarkable cuteness is an objective fact, not an opinion. And the helmet doesn’t really detract from that cuteness. But it is a head turner and a conversation starter, “Did he have a head injury?” people ask. I think a lot of folks who don’t say anything look at the helmet and think we’re just overly protective, shielding him from normal bumps and bruises. I chuckle at that, because that wouldn’t be far off base for me. I’m kind of glad that he’s wearing a helmet as he learns to walk around our old, wooden doors.
Of course, Noah will have no memory of the helmet, or of his first birthday party. He racked up on plastic accessories Sunday from his grandparents and aunts and uncles, things that will further clutter a child-dominated home. His sister also picked out gifts for him and generally shows a lot of affection for him, at least when she’s not hollering about a toy intrusion. I enjoy their interactions — usually.
My gift to Noah is the same one I gave to Addie, a letter about his actual birthday and his first year of life. Looking back at the letter I wrote Addie in 2006, there are already things that have slipped from my memory. No kid would take ink on a page over a nice plastic toy, but I also know that most any adult would prefer such a letter to anything purchased at Target.
I hope my son and daughter will learn to choose things in life that add to their sense of self value, not detract from it. I hope they will always look at tough choices and ask themselves, “Is this going to make me feel good or bad about myself?” I hope I can always be a help, though I know there are limits. And that is a tough fact.
But for now, forget all that, there’s still cake to eat.
Happy birthday, my son, I love you.
Zach Mitcham is editor of The Madison County Journal.
