That fine line between genius and madness

I just read that today is Shel Silverstein's birthday, so I thought today was as good a day as any to tell my Shel Silverstein story.

Shel Silverstein had a house on Martha's Vineyard, and we used to see him around when I was in high school. We did not talk to him (although we would totally peek over his shoulder when he was doodling on napkins at the coffee shop), because even though he was a beloved author of our childhood, he looked like this:



and we were mildly terrified of him. He also sometimes talked to himself, walked everywhere, and never wore shoes.

So one day my dad and I were driving to Oak Bluffs, and we passed him walking along the bike path. I pointed him out and said, "That's Shel Silverstein. He's a famous children's author."

Dad looks over and says, "Famous? Huh. I thought he was a hobo."

Oh, hello!

(That's totally me, with gluten as the supervillain.)

Yesterday, a friend on Facebook recommended my blog to someone, and it was like she'd complimented my home decorating when I knew there was a bra on the couch, 67 toys on the floor, and a cobweb with a big, dead spider in the middle sitting up near the ceiling.

Not that my living room has ever looked like that, of course.

Except it was worse, because no one can see my sensible undergarments unless I let them in the house, but all y'all can see that I haven't updated here in three damn months.

Basically, Baby Razor got sick. And it was that kind of sick where she was probably okay? But we had to watch her. So I watched her fail to gain weight for three months, then start throwing up every other day for two terrifying weeks before our doctor's appointment, during which Baby Razor's doctor was like, "Okay, the mood is very Eeyore in here." And God bless her for having a sense of humor about it, because Mr. Razor and I have an unspoken agreement that one of us needs to be the strong one when the other one is freaking out, but that went right out the window the night I was like, "I'm really worried" and he was like, "Oh shit, I can see her hipbones."

The short version is that Baby Razor has celiac disease. The longer version is that Baby R's doctor is awesome (and I don't just say that because I've known her for 15 years), Children's Hospital Boston is efficient and caring but still scary as hell, and wheat is in FUCKING EVERYTHING. The really long version involves a lot of hyperventilating and stress-eating, so I'll skip that one.

Maybe surprisingly, I'm not sad or freaked out by the diagnosis; I'm grateful. Look: I'm pretty sure there is no human body on earth that runs perfectly. Mine likes to panic and randomly throw blood clots. My father-in-law's tries to kill him whenever he's within three feet of shrimp. So Baby Razor's thinks wheat and barley can suck it; that's totally okay. I'm just glad we know! For awhile there I was terrified that I was going to end up on Mystery Diagnosis, wearing a sensible cardigan and saying, "At that point, we thought she was going to weigh 20 pounds for the rest of her natural life."

We're still figuring out her diet (seriously, gluten sneaks into every. damn. thing.), but she's gaining weight, and she has enough energy to power my neighborhood. Which means I can let go of some of the mental energy I've been devoting to her digestive tract and go back to telling stories about things like trying to make mom-friends when I'm naturally anti-social, my latest crafting disaster, and random shit I find at the thrift shop. Watch this space!