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Posts Tagged ‘child’

Many moons ago, when I was but a college child, I was in a play that defined insanity as “Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

It has stuck with me such that when I find myself hammering the same nail again and again, I check to see if it’s actually moving. If it isn’t, then I step back and re-examine.

It would be nice if I could remember this about expecting help from doctors who practice traditional American/Western Medicine. They don’t help. They don’t have a clue what’s ailing you unless they can pull it out of a test tube or prove you need to be sliced open. You’d think I would know this by now but I keep going back and thinking it will be different.

It never is.

Someday, I hope to notice the nail not moving before going to yet another “traditional” doctor. Maybe then I’d stop wasting my time, getting mad at them and start getting answers from people who can actually provide answers.

On the upside, Avi came home and taught me some Spanish.  That was cool.

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Dreams do Come True

I never forget that I’m a mom.

I don’t always think about it, but I never forget.

Even though I have a career I love, if I run into someone I haven’t seen in a while and they ask what I’m up to the first thing out of my mouth is “being a mom.”

With all the busy-ness of being-a-mom, it can be easy to forget how miraculous it is that I am one.

When I was growing up, I never dreamed of a white wedding and I didn’t think this was unusual.  But when I finally did get married, my girlfriends all admitted to their childhood dreams of weddings.  I had to think back and realized that in place of dreams of weddings was a dream of motherhood.  And every time I fell in love, I didn’t daydream about my life with this partner, I dreamt of his conversations with our child.  It was never a partner for which I longed, it was a child.

And, here I am, with a child.  A grown-up.  With a child.

And it wasn’t until I saw this picture this evening, of my child.  My small child with my face staring back at me that I remembered how miraculous it is, how lucky I am, how honored I am to have a child.  My dream has come true.  Unexpectedly and without warning, I am living a dream

I hope I do her justice because she’s frickin’ awesome.

at StoryLand

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There was a time when you flew in circles about the room, flapping your wee wings and laughing in delight.

There was a time when the cries ushering from your mouth were only true tears of sadness or hunger.

A hug, a nurse, a kiss, a tickle, cheered all.

Where have you gone, my little fae?  And who is this peskie pixie that has come in your place?

Who screams with a banshie howl, shattering glass with her spoiled desires.

Who refuses to listen to reason and instead throws herself on the ground–a heap of thrashing limbs.

Who screams and screams and screams and screams.

And then screams some more.

Where did she come from and why?

But, of most importance, how do I get you back, child of my heart?

I see glimpses of you as she gasps for a new breath.  I see you underneath it as she whimpers, ‘I want a hug.’  But I cannot give in while she is still here.  That would make her stronger.  Some how I must resist her caterwauling and still find you beneath it all.

I don’t know how to do that.

I miss you, child of my heart.  I miss the mama I was to you.

But, most of all, I miss you.  My little faery child.  I miss you.  I hope you find your way home soon.

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Those of you whose children have more than one home are, I’m sure, all too familiar with the hand-off:  when you watch your child go, or hand your child over, to the other parent.  For a day, a week, a weekend, an hour.  It is with trepidation, with relief, with bravery, with care, with hope.

You remind the other parent of food, recent sleep patterns, the favorite toy, the absent sippy cup.  You make sure you know when the next hand-off will be:  when you can expect her back in your home.

It is a regular routine over here.

Except today.

Today it was really hard.

I handed her over for the weekend.  Only one night, true, not really a full weekend.  But a night away, nonetheless, with a 102 degree fever.

I made myself hand her over.  He’s a really good dad.  I warned him she was sick.  He said it was okay, he can handle it, he’s done it before.  I wrote out the baby tylenol doses and the pediatrician’s number.  I’ve already called twice to check in.

But she was crying.  And she was so hot.  And I would have been happy to sit with her on the couch all night.  This little oven burning a hole in my lap.  But I would sit with her.  With the hope that my love and touch alone could make the fire die down and allow her heart to slow to its normal pace and let her body rest.

But it’s my weekend for me.  It’s my weekend alone.  And they will be fine.  Had we been living in the same home, I would not have canceled tonight’s plans.  I would have done exactly what I’m doing now: leave the phone on vibrate and call to check-in.  But, because she’s not in my home, she’s in her second home, I worry more.  It’s a useless, pointless, wasted worry.  She is in the same hands that would have held her in my home, just in a different home.  I do not know why the change in location would make me worry more.

It’s just, she was so hot.  My little tiny girl.  Flushed so hot.  And all I did was hand her off.

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