my little superhero

It's going okay with the Synthroid. (Every time I say that word, I think of Syndrome from The Incredibles. Sometimes Synthroid teams up with Flomax and Lipitor, and then you really have to watch out.)

Ezra has taken his pill three mornings in a row like a trooper. Swallowing it has been no problem. Yesterday he said to me, "I decided that this pill is fun. And good." Maybe I got the wrong prescription.

I've tried to be very matter-of-fact about the medication with him. Probably because of my sensitivity and all-around awesomeness as a mother, I haven't said, "Here, take your pill, sweetheart. Remember why? Because you're sickly and feeble and your body will never work right without it."

But that's what I'm thinking. There's something about the neverendingness of it that's just so disheartening to me, something about his body's inability to do what it's supposed to on its own.

I remember years ago, when Ezra was past that really fragile newborn stage and we were still in that awed new parent stage, Stupid Daddy would sometimes kind of bunch him up in his enormous hands like a compact package and turn him this way and that and say to me, "Look at this, sweetie! He's got everything he needs. It's all right here." But that turned out not to be the case.


I guess it's always something--glasses, insulin, antidepressants. I'm really working not to overdramatize this. He's just so little that looking out at the rest of his life, every day a pill, every day a pill, is overwhelming. And I just love him so much.