By Vicki Forman There is a whole host of people who take care of my son: his incomparable nanny, Gloria; two aides, ten therapists, three teachers; a pediatrician, a surgeon and six other specialists who oversee his eyes, heart, lungs, and brain; the provider who coordinates his social services; and the agency that sends us Gloria. The list goes on and on, and each Christmas I find myself remembering yet another generous soul who has contributed that year to caring for my…[more]

By Vicki Forman I am a writer; my whole life I have worked with words. And yet on my journey with my son I have come to know the quiet secret every writer knows in her heart: despite our love of words and the power they have over us, words can only ever approximate. I remember once asking a pediatrician to consider re-hospitalizing my son after a spate of seizures when he was ten months old. "He's a super preemie," I told the doctor. "He's ten months old," the man c…[more]

By Vicki Forman My son's first Christmas, Santa visited the NICU and handed out teddy bears. My parents were in town, a visit planned months earlier when we felt certain Evan would be home by Thanksgiving. Instead, they witnessed Evan's third and final eye surgery, and the conversation afterwards with the retinologist. "I'm sorry," she said. "I did everything I could." That year, I couldn't bring myself to put up a tree. Instead, I sat on the couch and told a friend, "I kn…[more]

By Vicki Forman Recently, I visited my son at school during snack time, to observe him with his feeding and occupational therapists. I said hi to Evan to let him know I was there, then sat across the picnic table from him and watched as he slowly unzipped his lunchbox -- first one corner, then the next and the next -- and lifted the lid to remove his cup, then his bowl and spoon, and, finally, two containers of baby food. "Banana orange medley or Dutch apple dessert?…[more]

By Vicki Forman When my daughter was four years old, she received an end-of-the-year scrapbook from her preschool teachers. There, amidst the anecdotes of pre-reading Max & Ruby stories, the child-created observations of flower growth in the classroom garden, and reports of endless water play with friends, I read the following: "During the year, Josie has shown enormous anger at the illness of her baby brother, as well as guilt and remorse over that anger..." T…[more]

By Vicki Forman My son starts school this fall in a new class, at a new location, with new kids and a new teacher. A week before school began, I stopped by to drop off his things. Behind the classroom, a school district employee welded a new railing, one my blind son will use to navigate the steps from the classroom to the snack area. "That's for my son," I told the man above the din of his tools. "Thank you for doing this." He smiled and kept at the job. Another empl…[more]

by Vicki Forman I am going on vacation for a week in August. I am not taking my son. My daughter and I are packing up on a trip to the San Juan Islands, off the coast of Washington Sate, to visit an old friend. My son is staying home with Special Needs Papa and our trusty babysitter, Gloria. This past May, the tables were turned: my husband took our daughter to Hawaii for five days to see relatives. My son stayed home with me. It's been four years since our boy flew on an…[more]

By Vicki Forman The month between my birthday, at the end of June, and my son's birthday, a precise thirty days later, is full of memories: The fourth of July company picnic we attended before my son and his twin sister were born. I wore my brand new Lucille Ball maternity outfit -- white capris and a red plaid shirt -- but I felt neither summery nor excited. Pregnant with twins, I was already larger at six months than I'd been at full term with my older daughter. I f…[more]

By Vicki Forman The night I went into labor with my first child my husband Cliff was halfway through the book The Expectant Father. I timed my contractions and gazed at the book's cover, a pin-striped shirt with a pastel baby rattle strategically tucked into the pocket where a pen or index card ought to go. "Isn't it a little late to be reading that?" I asked. As it turned out, when the labor ended more than fifteen hours later, Cliff couldn't wait to get his hand…[more]

by Vicki Forman Because my son was born so early and spent the first six months of his life in the hospital, his body offers up a latticework of scars. Dotting his feet are the tiny marks where blood was drawn, hundreds of times; along his ankles and wrists, deeper, twisted scars where doctors cut into veins, attempting to place lines and probes; along his forehead, more signs of pinpricks and IV's. At first, with his tender baby skin, Evan's marks were obvio…[more]