By Tracy Kirby
Image by Crista Ballard Photography
Almost a year ago, we welcomed our second miracle baby into our family; our first son, Wes. We brought him home and smelled him and stared at him creepily like any doting parent will tell you we do. I relished doing his laundry (usually the bane of my existence) and folded and smoothed his tiny clothes like they were delicate treasures. Every time I saw his precious chest heave with breath, I prayed silent prayers of gratitude; he was finally here. Smiling. Eating. Healthy. A tangible answer to so many prayers.
A couple weeks after he was born, I noticed a large white—what I thought to be—birthmark on his tummy and marveled that I hadn’t noticed it until then. Then, as I started to investigate, I found a few more sprinkled on his body. I just thought; well, he’s part Pacific Islander, part Caucasian, perhaps his skin is just having an identity crisis. And I moved on with my life-with-a-newborn-caffeine-driven life.
At our four-month check-up, I pointed out the spots to our pediatrician and to my surprise, the look on her face changed from bubbly well-baby check to serious investigative doctor face. My stomach dropped like I was falling 10 floors as the words came out of her mouth: “Well, these marks … Mmm … It actually might be a sign of a certain genetic disorder …”
Ahem. Excuse me, come again?
Read the full article in the May issue of 605 Magazine or click here.