Mommy Proof #30: It's okay to cry.

My oldest child had emergency surgery last week. Emergency is a word that is scary enough. Surgery is enough to make your heart stall. They have to put her under anesthesia. They have to cut her little body. She will forever be altered. How much pain will she be in? How will she cope? How will I cope? Who will watch my other children? Who will keep them during the surgery? What do I tell them? Then, your mind starts to run the gamut of  "What ifs?" What if the surgeon isn't the best? What if there is a complication? What if she doesn't wake up? What if...

There are no correct answers. In the hospital room before she was wheeled out of surgery, I paced back and forth with my mind racing. We went from a low grade fever and tummy ache to being admitted into the hospital. My baby was about to be cut open for the surgeon to remove her appendix, yet there she lay laughing and joking with us. So, I had to be brave. I couldn't show that I was scared. I couldn't cry. The problem is......I love to cry. I absolutely love to cry. It is great. It is a way to purge all of my emotions. It may be my favorite past time, but it isn't always productive. If I had shown her my tears, she would have known that I was scared. Then, she would have been scared.

Bob the Bear accompanied my daughter into the operating room. They removed his appendix, too.

Instead, I smiled and made lame jokes. Horribly, lame jokes. I didn't expect her to laugh and she didn't. It did break the ice though. It did allow her to say she didn't expect this to happen. It did help her to put her emotions into words. It made me realize that this was moving much too fast for her, too. It is probably what helped us to cope. From stomach ache to surgery, we didn't have time to be afraid. We had to face this head on and it made the hard decisions easy to make.

Life has a funny way of repeating itself. Nine and a half years before, it was just us in a hospital room facing the unknown. We didn't know what to expect, but we knew the next step had to be made. As her bed was rolled out of her room, I followed while silently praying. I prayed for her well being. I prayed she would be fine. I prayed everything would go well. I prayed that the surgeon would take care of her as I would. I prayed that this would all be over. I prayed that this would go away. I laughed as she joked with the anesthesiologist. I chuckled at her attempt to make jokes even though you could see her fear. My heart swelled with joy when I saw her face as her father walked in to embrace her small body. Then, she was wheeled away from us through those doors where I had no control. We held hands and walked down the corridor. Finally, I took a deep breath and sobs replaced it. Short, strong sobs that did not help, but allowed myself to feel what my mind thought.

An hour later, the surgeon walked down the hall with a smile on his face. Her infected appendix was gone. She was in recovery. She was going to be just fine and I cried again. It is okay to cry. I cried when I saw her in recovery. I cried when she was determined to get out of bed and walk. I shed a couple tears when I saw the determination etched on her face as she would attempt to sit up by herself. As I said earlier, life has a funny way of repeating itself. Once again, it was just us in a hospital room. Amen.

Hello, little Miss Invisible

Mommy Proof #29: I may have failed to mention my middle child....

I take it middle child syndrome is real. We have a second born child. I don't believe I have ever mentioned her. I'm positive I have never blogged about her. I have mentioned having four. I have written about my youngest child and his demands for the vast amount of my attention. I have laughed about my mini-me who makes me wonder how I ever decided that I could be some one's mother. I have triumphed with my third child who has overcome a few learning disablities. In the midst of it all, I may have accidentally failed to mention that I do, indeed, have another child that makes that number into a fabulous four. Her name may have fallen by the wayside as I focused my efforts on the child that needed it the most at any given moment.

She is a seven year old girl with the biggest smile and brightest eyes that you can imagine. A tiny one with a Bostonian accent that we all wonder where it came from as we live in a tiny country town. A daddy's girl at night and a mommy's girl during the day, that is our child. She looks like her father and has a personality like her mother. The kid that hardly ever gets sick, but when she does so sick she is! A child who cries every morning about going to school and smiles every afternoon as I pick her up. The easy going kid that never gets in any trouble. She is a perfect student. Quiet, well-mannered, appropriately behaved...

The type of kid that will call you from the school nurse's phone feigning an illness. Then when you get to the school, you can look in her eyes and tell that is not the real reason she is upset. You gather her into your arms and she melts into position. A hug is the cure for her discomfort. A cuddle is the needed therapy for a headache. A little bit of love is needed to hold her for the remaining four hours of school. So that is what I do, time and time again. Sometimes staying at the school to sit for library time. Watching her as she first watches me to see if I will remain there, then I am watching her as she forgets that I am still there. 

Then, she got sick and it reminded me of something. What if her sickness is not just a virus? What if it is something serious? How many minutes have I missed a memory to be made? So I decided to make more of an effort. I vowed to pay more attention than less when she is content to sit quietly. Instead of focusing on the ones that need to be entertained, what if I just go and sit quietly with her? What if I let her know that she is equally important? How many times have I neglected to do that? How content was she? I have come to cherish those times. They make her who she is and who she will become. I would hate for her to think that I focused so much on her siblings that I missed seeing her grow up...

One of the rare moments a family member captured. Just me, #2, and soon to #4....