There was - what has become known as - the 'no smile period' in my son's life. This was a period of about 4 months within which my son did not smile even once within my presence. Not myself nor his mother glimpsed even a single smile no matter how many times we tried to squeeze one out of him; and squeeze, we certainly did (he loves rough tickles, or at least... he used to)
Eventually I came to accept my new reality. I admitted to myself, to my wife, to my family; my son doesn't smile anymore. He can't, won't, doesn't want to. He's not happy enough. He's too sick, in too much pain, not comfortable enough... anymore. He can't enjoy my tickles anymore. He hurts too much to notice and love the delicate touch of the tissue on his chin, like he used to. He's too sad. He's too sick. He's far too sick. He's not well enough anymore. I don't know when he will be; if he ever will be. He might not smile again before he dies. He might die soon. You should come see him before he dies; maybe you can see him smile just once. Come soon, if you can.
This was one of the saddest times of my life. One of my most prized possessions, my most loved and adored gifts, the thing I looked forward to seeing each day, that helped me out of bed and hurried me home from work; was just... gone.
My heart ached and sank every time I tried and failed to make him smile. Every time I brushed a tissue lightly over his face, every time I poked a finger into his ribs or tummy or cheeks, and every time I kissed him all over his body, bit his arms and legs, picked him up and tossed him around; every single one of those times was so brutally painful. I wanted so badly to see his little lips curl upwards and his body convulse in laughter. Every time I was met with nothing; a blank stare, not even a mere glance, no recognition, no halt in his preoccupation. I felt a sadness that I'd never felt before. It was a grim, suffocating sadness.
Eventually I came to accept my new reality. I admitted to myself, to my wife, to my family; my son doesn't smile anymore. He can't, won't, doesn't want to. He's not happy enough. He's too sick, in too much pain, not comfortable enough... anymore. He can't enjoy my tickles anymore. He hurts too much to notice and love the delicate touch of the tissue on his chin, like he used to. He's too sad. He's too sick. He's far too sick. He's not well enough anymore. I don't know when he will be; if he ever will be. He might not smile again before he dies. He might die soon. You should come see him before he dies; maybe you can see him smile just once. Come soon, if you can.
I write this from a privileged time 18 months after this sad period has come to an end. I write this from a joyous, brilliant, ecstatic time when my son's smile, laughter, and enormously happy voice fills our home every hour of every day. It is such a wonderful time. I am a privileged man and father; so privileged.
I am privileged for one reason only:
Because he smiles.
And because I'm there to see it.
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