We met Tate six months ago yesterday. And were named his legal parents six months ago today.
Tate and I "celebrated" by spending the afternoon at the cleft palate clinic with our local Children's Hospital craniofacial team. They schedule all 25-or-so children for the same time slot and then shuffle you back and forth to various rooms as the different specialists have time to see you.
Tate and I saw seven providers today. We saw the social worker, a nurse (for general health), an ENT, an audiologist, a dentist and orthodontist, a plastic surgeon, and a speech therapist. In between our visits, Tate ran me ragged in the waiting room, which started out packed. But as the 23rd child to check in -- and one of the very few who had to see all seven providers-- we were the last to depart. The most challenging part was keeping Tate from eating crumbs off the floor. (I know-- eww.)
He did great with each doctor. His ear tubes are working. His mouth is healing just as it should. He is adjusting to life in our family well. He will need a whole lotta dental and orthodontal work. And he needs speech therapy because he is terribly far behind. Not in communicating, mind you. Oh, no. Tate communicates just fine. He knows the signs for "more," "all done," and "water," and he manages to get everything else he wants by grunting and pointing. And he certainly has no difficulty expressing his complete joy or his irritation. All in all, exactly as we had expected.
Except for my pants. Which I just had dry-cleaned. And are now covered in Tate much from my mid-thigh down. (I think it'd be from my knee down if I were taller.)
I've been gone an awful lot lately for work-- but Tate didn't seem to mind that I had this afternoon free to join him at the clinic. And I was glad to be in the loop.
Our trip to China seems like forever ago on the one hand. On the other hand, the time has passed in the blink of an eye. And I already can't really remember what life was like before Tate. And I don't want to anyway.