Fathead.

Tuesday morning I went to the state capitol to speak to elected officials about the March of Dimes. Being out in the world around other adults has become thrillingly novel, and I am no longer well-equipped for it, sadly. First there was the problem of clothing myself, as my customary uniform of housepants and a long-sleeved t-shirt would have been inappropriate. Though I now wonder whether seeing me with my unwashed hair in a bun, spit up on my knee, and bits of Cheerio clinging to my left breast would have inspired useful sympathy, or better yet, financial support for a March of Dimes pilot program wherein mothers of preemies are flown to Bermuda for the second half of RSV season and plied with strong drink and grilled shrimp eaten off the smooth torsos of cabana boys.

Anyhow, I managed to unearth my one pair of fancy pants from a bag of dry cleaning that one of the cats had been using as a lair. The pants in question appeared to be made entirely of cat hair when I found them, but I recognized the label and knew that there was perfectly good black material underneath. After I had removed the worst of the furriness with duct tape, I hung the pants in the bathroom with the shower running in an attempt to steam out the 6-month-old creases. We do own an iron, by the way, but I am ashamed to say that it wasn’t until later in the afternoon that I even remembered the existence of such a fantastical, fabric-smoothing appliance. Luckily, the never worn button-down shirt I paired with the pants still had creases running down the arms, so I figured “creases” could be the unifying theme tying my outfit together. Missing from my ensemble was underwear, because I couldn’t find any.

The meetings went well, I think, though to be perfectly honest I can’t remember what I said. Well, that’s not entirely true. I DO remember that at one point I was mentioning my hairdresser’s loss of premature twins 20 years ago, only for some reason I thought “hairdresser” made me sound like Emily Gilmore, or something—some vain, bourgeois woman who goes once a week to have her hair set in rollers—and because I couldn’t remember another word for it (Stylist! Woman who cuts my hair!) I ended up referring to her as my “hair…cutter” after a long, panicky, aphasia-driven pause.

I think I write with some level of competence. I can make my point clearly, sometimes even with a soupcon of elegance. But speaking, you would never believe English is my first language. There are so many words to choose from, you see, and I can’t sort through them fast enough to articulate myself in conversation. Then I get flustered, and either babble wildly or shut down altogether. Those of you who will be at the St. Paul March of for Babies will see what I mean when I speak—my plan if I get stuck is to fall off the stage as a distraction. It should be a good time either way.

Anyhow, I got to live out my West Wing fantasies for a morning, which was more than worth any awkwardness, and because I am a huge civics nerd who spent all her time at her last job reading the laws she was supposed to be editing, I developed a little crush on the woman leading our group, who wears suits and talks easily about bill language and gets to play Josh Lyman while advocating for babies. I mean really—does it get any better?
Our legislative visits were in the state office building, across from where we met in the capitol-proper, and because this is Minnesota, there are underground tunnels connecting the two. These tunnels were like something out of a Law & Order cold open. I kept expecting to round a corner and come upon a skeleton still wearing a tie, maybe next to HELP ME! spelled out in gnawed-upon rat bones. Everything was dank and yellowish and far more labyrinthine than necessary, and I wonder how many people have been lost down there and given up for dead.

After the capitol I raced home to take Simone to her appointment at the NICU Follow-Up Clinic. As you may recall, the last time she was there for a developmental assessment, things went…poorly. Like, “I think your baby might be deaf” poorly. Simone was five months adjusted at the time, testing in the two-month range for receptive language, with a delay in motor skills as well. So yes, I was nervous about Tuesday’s appointment, if by “nervous” you mean “moments from losing control of my bowels.” As it turned out, however, I needn’t have been: this time, Simone scored at or ahead of her adjusted age for everything, mostly in the nine-month range. And receptive language?
ELEVEN MONTHS, BITCHES.
Probably as a result of needing room for all that brain, her head is in the 90th percentile on the preemie charts. She’s coming for you, full-term babies. Watch your tiny backs.