Last night we went to my favorite Christmas party of the season. It's thrown by my friend's parents, and it's been a highlight of my December for the past six years. Well, except for the part last year when I spent the whole night fielding comments about W's bowed legs. And the part this year when one of the therapists (physical, maybe? I'm not exactly sure what she does) pulled me aside to tell me that W really needs to get into our local early intervention program because he's "not in the normal range" for a two-year-old in several areas.
Talk about a punch in the gut. Even though I sort of knew most of the things she was telling me, no one wants to hear that their kid has special needs - especially from someone who is essentially a stranger you see once a year at a Christmas party.
There's so much more to this I want to flesh out, but I just don't have it in me tonight. For now, suffice it to say that W in not attending this Christmas party next year; I don't want the other guests to find anything else wrong with my poor baby.