I mean, obviously they were jealous, who wouldn't be jealous of such an adorable little..um..creature.
The cross eyes seemed to work themselves out, he grew into his ears, his head got covered up with hair, and his feet grew in the correct direction (thanks to my MIL who made it her life mission to rub them downward).
Nineteen months later God blessed us with an exquisite baby. Amelle was a beautiful baby. I'm not bragging, it's a fact. And I can say that because I don't have anything to do with putting babies together, that's God's job. I'm just the oven that cooks them for 9 months; I couldn't even control the gender, let alone the aesthetics. Maybe God felt bad about the first one, I really don't know.
Then there was Amaya. There was a slight malfunction during the c-section with Maya, something about the spinal wearing off and me feeling the incision, and baby coming out not crying, and something isn't right, and knock the mother out, and take the baby to NICU, and Dirt feeling helpless cause his wife just had a baby and she's out cold and the baby has been rushed off to NICU.
I didn't actually see Amaya until she was 24 hours old, but Dirt brought me a picture of her from NICU. That photograph tormented me in my darkest most painful hours. I think my reaction to seeing the (below) photo went something like, "Oh. Are you sure this one is ours, she doesn't look like ours". Inside I was resisting the urge to name her "Monchichi".
I'm sure it was the drugs talking, I mean, I was on some heavy duty stuff and what kind of a mother would see her little baby all wired up and think, "boy, this one is kinda freaky looking". When I finally met her the next day and held her in my arms, I remember telling Dirt that she wasn't so bad. (I'm laughing out loud as I type because it's such an awful thought).
However, as you can see, the story ends well. She turned out to be a cutie-patootie. I think. I mean, after the Avery incident of 99, I can't trust my perceptions.