My baby,
my tiny little girl,
is now mobile.
While she’s not quite crawling, she’s able to really get her move on. She rolls, she drags herself, she pulls herself and can sit up on her own.
She can, quite speedily, maneuver herself from one end of the living room to the other end of the living room, and back again.
But no, that’s not the crazy part.
This evening, my little cruiser decided to roll around on the floor with her doggy brother and sister, as my husband looked after her.
She rolled to the armchair where she sat up and looked around,
and then to the TV stand where she made faces in the reflection of the glass,
and then to the coffee table, where she banged her pretty little head.
She wailed, and wined and fussed.
She fussed for a little too long.
And then she threw up. It may have been a normal spit up, but I couldn’t help but to worry. And then she wobbled a bit, as she pulled herself up to sitting. And then I couldn’t help but to worry a little more. And so, I called the doctor, just to check in.
The nurse on call told me that it was “better to be safe than sorry” and that I should take her to the Emergency Room.
But no, that’s not the crazy part.
When we arrived at the ER and checked in, the woman at the welcome desk told us that my daughter was not in the system.
She had been born at the affiliated hospital.
We knew her Social security number.
Yet, no record of her name.
After a bit of research on the part  of the receptionist, she determined that my daughter’s information, including our address, phone number and her DOB, had all been entered into the system under the wrong name. Not a wrong spelling. Not a close match. The wrong name. Yes, it had the same initials, but it was not really even close.
How crazy is that? But no, that’s not the crazy part.
When they brought us back to the exam room,
my daughter was able to demonstrate her newest new trick to the nurse.
You see, on Thanksgiving, the baby learned how to lean in and “give kisses”. Just today, she learned how to imitate the lips-puckered-kissing sound. The fact that she was able to learn and perform a trick on command made me feel a bit better.
But you know. I’m a little crazy sometimes. I needed to hear the doctor say she was OK.
And no, I’m not the crazy part.
As we waiting in the hospital room,
a small piece of fuzz floated into my view as it fell to the ground.
Aww man. I thought to myself. I wish it had been a feather.
I could use a feather right about now.
My thought was interrupted by the sweet, young nurse, who scurried into the room to tell us that the baby was looking great, and that despite her tiny bump she’d be just fine.
As she leaned in and stretched out her hand to squeeze the baby’s arm,
I couldn’t help but to gasp.
There, on her wrist was a big, shiny bracelet,
made out of a feather.
A feather.
What are the odds?
And that, my friends. is the crazy part.