Three for Thursday: Dibbs in the Wild

First time sitting in the grass.

My Fault

"It's not your fault," says the physical therapist as she shows us the photos they've taken of the baby's head.

I nod. It's my fault. My face betrays nothing of what I'm thinking.

"It's nothing you did," she smiles reassuringly.

It's something I did, I think. Or didn't do. It must be.

I think of the repositioning tactics I tried but how he still insisted on sleeping on his right side. I think of how many times I failed to notice him preferring turning to his right. How I didn't have torticollis on my radar because he seemed to have full range of motion in his neck.

Dibbs getting his DSI (imaging) for his helmet.
He licked the stocking on his face. And drooled a lot.

"No, it's just that he was a big baby and he didn't have a lot of space in utero. It happens."

Aaaaaaand...there it is. The kicker. This woman doesn't know that I have type 1 diabetes. Doesn't know that "big baby" is one of the many phrases we tire of blaming ourselves for. And it's all the ammunition I need to metaphorically shoot myself with the guilt gun.