If you would turn off your cynicism for just a moment...
I was outside with the two younger ones, watching them play in the sandbox. Actually, I was making sure the three-year-old doesn't bash the toddler's head in with a series of well-aimed plastic shovel strikes and said toddler wasn't eating sand.
I digress.
Comes now the five-year-old and wraps his arms around my neck, asking me to twirl him around. In moment of intense concentration trying to keep my dinner down (my ability to withstand spinning motions is the inner ear equivalent of the guy who gets sand kicked his face of all those Charles Atlas advertisements), I noticed something and told Mr. E (the five-year-old) that I wanted to share something with him. The wet atmosphere just to our South had made a very light rainbow. I aimed his head in the general direction.
...you can understand that the otherTroublesomes wouldn't have a deft appreciation of such a delicate moment...
"I don't see it, Daddy."
"Here," I said, pointing.
"Still don't."
I moved his head directly in line with it.
"I just see the yellow part."
Shit. A million shits/fucks/goddamns.
I mean, we suspected he was color blind, but I have never heard him really have a problem with it. Yes, we've been to the pediatrician and yes, we're going to get more testing and all that. And yes, I've read the first 500 websites within striking distance of Google's crawler.
...AND YES, I REALIZE IT'S NOT SOMETHING REALLY SERIOUS LIKE DEATH OR BLINDNESS.
But, for some reason, I started weeping. I don't know why, but it was strangely sad. Will his life be drastically changed by this? Would a budding talent for some kind of visual art be squashed before it could be realized?
And this thought is weird, mind you. I mean, it's not like we're huge connoisseurs of Old Master oils or anything, but still, as a parent, your first instinct is to want your child to be pristine and perfect. Not from a status viewpoint, but so that their lives aren't difficult without meaning. Note: We didn't name any of our boys Sue or Sidney or Kelly for that very reason.
I like to read the stories of courage or bravery or overcoming disabilities and living a full and fruitful life. But I want to that shit to happen to other people, not me nor my family. All those NASCAR fans who love to see the crashes had that chicken come home to roost when they got it in spades with Dale Earnhardt, didn't they? Not so funny when it happens to someone you care about, is it?
Eh, we'll get through this and over time it'll be something we laugh about when he wears mismatched socks just like his Dad.