“Wheels on the Bus” loops in the background.
The other moms in our circle at Bay Spring Community Center occasionally smile at the two of us.
At 10 months, Franky is not bubbly, not all smiles and delight, not babbling like you’d expect. He doesn’t clap his hands like clashing symbols or bounce as he sits.
In fact, I don’t think I can ever remember him cooing or smiling.
He’s had the same monochromatic expression since birth, a head more rectangular and narrow than daisy round.
He’s paler than the other babies, trending green in rooms with dimmer light.
One of the moms asks me if I’ve taken him to the pediatrician to rule out liver problems. He might have a rare form of jaundice, she says. Another asks me if his vaccinations are up to date.
I say, Yep, no worries. He’s good.
Had any of them shown the slightest bit of interest in learning more about Franky, what he’s like outside our circle time, they would have realized that there’s plenty of joy behind that empty gaze.
You just have to know what to look for, the slight curling up at the edges of his lips after he eats a spoonful of applesauce, the way he extends his arms out in front of him like two train tracks for balance and teeter-totters forward while making little grunts.
Grunts of joy, for sure!
I wish you had seen when he took his first steps in our living room. How he looked back over his shoulder with that long drawn-out stare as if to say Hey mom look at me! I’m doing it!
Our cat Fluffles gets quite agitated by him though. That rascal’s always been skittish, ever since we found her shivering under our neighbor’s car. Maybe it’s Franky’s herky-jerky way of toddling around the townhouse that sends her into a tailspin, but whatever the reason, she now calls underneath my bed home.
None of this fazes Franky though.
He loves animals. Any time I take him to the park in his stroller and he sees one of the Jack Russells there, his eyes get real wide, like they’re bulging out of his head and his mouth makes a small circle like a bubble wand and he groans a little, his way of saying Come’ere! Franky pet you!
The owners tighten their leash grips and I get a little indignant. I pick Franky up and walk over to them and start a conversation before they can find some excuse to wander off. I bend down as we talk so Franky can pet them. If he grabs them or squeezes too tightly, I say no Franky! and he looks up at me with those big “I’m sorry” eyes and a blank look of penance and stops. He does exactly what I say, when I say it.
That’s because he’s such a good boy.
When we’re out in public, you can’t miss how everyone’s eyes go right to his birthmark, the crooked line across his forehead over his left eyebrow.
Dr. Boyer says we should keep the staples in for at least a couple more months, but I’ve already been applying Burt’s Bees cream each night as I rock him to sleep. I really think it’s doing the trick.
That’s another thing.
Franky’s not a great sleeper and never has been. When I hear some stirring and the sound of his rattle tossed over the railing of his crib, I go in to find him more often than not staring out the window, reaching, going Mmmmmm, like there’s an ice cream cone he needs out there under the moon.
I have a feeling he’s going to be a little outdoors guy when he gets older. But if he is, he’s going to have to get over his stove jitters. He starts to shake and wave his arms and go Narrrrrrrrrrr whenever I turn it on. I say Franky, come on bud, it’s only a little blue flame. If you’re ever going to feel comfortable roasting marshmallows around a campfire with your friends, you’ve got to get over it. He just looks at me.
Our little ones always have a few strange aversions, don’t they?
I’m not going to worry though. Dr. Boyer says everything’s fine and I trust him.
It’s hard being a single mom who has to work in a town like Narragansett where most moms don’t. All the others here look so yoga-lifted, light and fresh, unencumbered by other responsibilities. To be honest, it makes me a little jealous.
I’m not alone in the traditional sense, but by virtue of my Heinrich’s schedule. He works nights in the lab and gets very irritated whenever I ask him to pick up diapers or formula. He barks that I’m interrupting his experiments, like I’m preventing him from winning the Nobel Prize or something. So full of himself.
Which reminds me that Franky’s got such the appetite these days that we find ourselves upping our cupboard reserves each week. He hates the pureed string beans though with a passion, so much so that he’ll spit it back out at us with a special kind of malice. I look it as a strength. Heinrich scolds him. You should see the look Franky gives him. I think at some point they’re going to butt heads. But for now, it’s simple.
He’s a growing boy who knows what he likes and what he doesn’t.
A good 5 inches taller and 10 pounds heavier than most babies his age.
I worry that Heinrich’s going to sign him up for football or ice hockey one day and I’ll have to put my foot down and remind him how common and dangerous head injuries are in those sports, which in Franky’s case could make his speech and cognitive delays worse. Dr. Boyer says he has plenty of time to catch up, but why take any risks? I’ve already got a great Montessori school picked out, the one on Boston Neck Road. It has an excellent reputation for working with less verbal children. I know the teachers will love Franky when they meet him.
From across the circle, Carly Swenson’s boy comes up to Franky and grabs his teddy and starts walking away with it. Now Carly’s always looked down her nose at me because I think she feels like we don’t belong there, like we don’t belong in Narragansett period and Franky’s quirks somehow spoil their little tight-knit group of giggling perfection.
She sees Tyler make off with my son’s teddy and gives me a little smirk and says something like Oh isn’t that cute. Franky looks at me, grunts a couple times, and lets out a small groan, so I know he’s upset.
He and I lock eyes.
There’s an anger building there, in both of us, as if we’re speaking to each other without words, coming to the same conclusion.
Tyler has the teddy at the center of the circle now, sitting with it in his lap, picking at one of its eyes, which comes loose.
Franky turns around, toddles up behind Tyler, and gives him a good hard shove in the back, sending him tumbling onto his side. Carly springs to her feet and scoops up her wailing precious treasure and shouts Oh my God! What wrong with you? You’re just going to let him do that? What kind of mother ARE you?
I stand up and get right in her face. I say I’m the kind of mom who raises her kid to respect others’ things. The other moms all stare at us, stunned, mouths open.
Meanwhile, Franky is happy again in the center of the circle.
He rips out teddy’s loose eye and tosses it aside.
Your boy’s a little monster, Carly says with full venom as she tries to soothe an inconsolable Tyler.
I give Franky a look in the circle and he’s going Mmmmmmm and I smile at him with brightest light of love that has ever shone out of my heart. Then I look back at Carly and nod. I’m smiling now with the multiplied force of love and pride.
Yeah, I say. He is.
He’s my little monster.
And I’m smiling now like I belong.
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