I Want to Go to College

Little One keeps saying that.

"I want to go to college."

Correction: She does not "say" it.  She yells it.

"I WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE!"

Finally, Big Kid had enough.

(I know this thanks to eavesdropping ninja-mom moves.)  Here, let me set the scene for you:

A Typical Morning in the Right Girl's Home 

Setting: The front room, the Right Girl's children put on their shoes as they ready for school.

[Mom (The Right Girl) finishes packing lunches in the kitchen around the corner.  As two of the three children begin speaking, she slides to the door with sleek, cat-like stealth to listen.]


Little One: I want to go to college.

Big Kid: You can't go to college.  I told you that you can't go to college.

Little One: No! I want to go to college!

Big Kid: You can't go to college.

Little One: NO!  I WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE!

Big Kid: [Calmly, logically] That's not how it works.  First you have to go to preschool.  Then you go to Kindergarten.  Then you go to first grade, then second grade, then third grade, then fourth grade, then fifth grade, then sixth grade, then seventh grade, then eighth grade, then ninth grade, then tenth grade, then eleventh grade, then twelfth grade and then you get to go to college.  When you go to college, you go for four years.

[Little One stares at Big Kid in blank wonderment.]



Okay, I made up that last part as my position around the corner did not allow for witnessing the expression on her face when she fell silent.

The other part that fascinates me is that - and you may have guessed - Big Kid is a whole lot like his mama.  That would be me.  That boy does not have patience for nonsense.  He just does not.  At all.  Little One may well want to go to college.  I really want and expect her to go to college.  That said, little kids do not get to go to college and Big Kid has heard her say it just too many times.  Thankfully, rather than yelling I do not know where he would have heard raised voices he used his logical, most-definitely-inherited instructive voice.

Sigh.  I love my family.

~G

Sniffles

Little One is sick.  She is not sick enough to lay around, but she is sick enough to warrant a serious hosing at regular intervals. We do not have enough tissues to address the issue.

She is sick enough that if I were working full-time outside the house, I would stay home to care for her.  It is one of those days when I feel thankful to be a SAHM.  I do not want anyone else (that would be Darling) home taking care of her.  I want to do it.

There is a solid chance being a SAHM will end in the next 6 months and I will need to go back into the paycheck-receiving workforce.  The good news I have job prospects.  The bad news I love being a SAHM and would rather stay one.

It is a constant struggle to stop massaging my worries and remember to leave them with God.  Worrying does not add a single hour to life, does it?

Today I feel thankful to be home with my baby.  I feel thankful to have a God who not only offers to take my worries, but expects me to leave the worries with Him.  I am thankful my baby is not sick enough to lay around and is only sick enough to not be anywhere but home.

It is just the sniffles... funny how that makes me thankful to be home.

~ G

Go Back to Your Oppice!

Little One is attempting the art of bossiness.  How do I know?

When told nap time had arrived, she bellowed at me (yes, preschoolers can bellow):

"Mama!  Go back to your oppice!"  (Uh, that was "office.")

She has issues with her "f" sound.  "F" does not come out properly when one is missing three front teeth.

Despite her utterly cute and endearing "oppice," she was quickly informed that taking that tone and using those words with her mother results in undesirable consequences.

I do not care for being ordered around by my children.

There are other things I do not care to see in/from my children.  One of those things is whining.

Do not get me started on whining.  I loathe whining.  Whining hits a nerve in me that instantaneously makes me want to snatch the whiner bald-headed.  But that requires a whole 'nother blog post.

Yes, I am a Southern Mama.  Why do you ask?

~ G

Marshmallows as Junk

Again, I'm sitting here writing and Little One comes in here and asks for "marshmallows as junk."

"Mama, I want marshmallows as junk," she pleads as she holds out her IKEA kid bowl.

Be impressed that I did not laugh.

On one hand, I'm thankful she's heard me that marshmallows are junk food.  On the other hand, I am not sure she's understood the lesson.

~ G

Brave

I'm sitting here at the computer working and Little One comes in and asks me to "brave."

Lately we've been praying together before she goes to sleep.  Usually, I pray over her when she's sound asleep, but we've started praying the Lord's Prayer before she goes to sleep.

She can't seem to say "pray."

She says "brave."

So I'm sitting here and my little girl comes in with a very earnest look, peers up into my face and asks me to "brave" with her.

She sat in my lap and I held her close and I prayed for her and ended with the Lord's Prayer.

Thank you, God.

~G

Being a Chinese Mother

No, that's not a euphemism.

Check out this article about why Chinese mothers are superior.  Now, as you can probably surmise from my bloggy persona above, I am not Chinese.  There's nary a drop of Asian blood in me; however, I think there are things my German/Irish/Norwegian ancestors had in common with the Chinese.  It's work ethic.

Read the article.  Go on.

This past weekend the kids and I went out to my parents' place in the country.  While the kids helped my mom in her workshop and then climbed trees, I helped my dad clear brush.  Yes, just like W.  I didn't get to use the chainsaw this time (bummer), but I did use the loppers, I did climb on top of the brush pile on the truck and stomp around on it a bit (well, more like jumped up and down on it like a carnival ride) and I did do a whole lot of heavy lifting and grunting.  I did clean up some timber for use as fence rails, identified some hardwood trees as keepers and prepped others for firewood.

It. felt. great.

All the worries and frustrations of the past few weeks just fell off my shoulders as I worked alongside my dad.  Clearing brush cleared my head.  Hard physical work puts things in perspective.

A few hours later, we were done for the day.  Dad's in his 60's and has declared he now has an aversion to working after 4:00.  So, despite wanting to continue, I honored my pop's decision and returned the tools to the workshop while Dad took the kids and dog for a ride in the truck.

One thing that struck me yesterday, that this article touches on, is hard work feels good.  I hated working with mom and dad when I was a kid.  I loathed it.  Complaining, however, wasn't an option.  If I complained, I got more work.  Now, I know how to do the work and Dad did not have to fill me in on the process once.  I donned some work gloves and got to work.

That felt great.  I felt great.  I felt good about myself.  I felt capable.  Strong.  I used all the skills my parents had taught me, like tricks to making lopper work easier and better ways to stack the brush, and felt incredibly satisfied with myself when we were done.  My body felt vital.  My head felt clear.  My emotions felt calmer.

Now, I have a daughter.  Despite all the articles I've read in magazines, imploring me to be careful of her delicate flower-ness, I do not worry about her self-esteem.  I feel absolutely no additional pressure to make sure she knows she's special and beautiful and not fat just because she was born with a uterus.  The pressure I feel for her is no different than the pressure I feel about raising my sons  - to be capable, self-sufficient, contributing members of society.

You know why?  She's stronger than that "girl" thing I'm supposed to be concerned about.  She's stronger and more capable and tougher and far more precious than anything she could buy in the store, than the way her friends might treat her, the way any boy might treat her, or any words I could say to her.  If I dance around her as if she's perched atop eggshells,  I teach her she's a dainty, delicate flower who can't do much. What a wretched blow to her psyche, to be treated as if she's too precious to get real and dirty.

If I hand her a pair of loppers and expect her to get to work with us, she learns she's more than the jeans she wears, the make-up she applies, the hair she styles or any of the details of her life.  She learns a lesson in the strength the good Lord gave her.  She learns she's part of this family, part of a team, very capable of attacking any challenge before her.

I know my girl.  I know she's a force to be reckoned with and that she has strength she will never know if I don't force her to tap into it.

My job as her mother is to allow her to (and, at some point, force her) to tap into that strength.  To grow up thinking she's only as good as what she puts on or in her body or only as good as what others think would never allow her to find out how incredible and strong she is.  If I constantly "do" for her, she never learns she can "do" for herself.  If I constantly frame things to make them easier, kinder, better for her, she never learns how resilient she is.

That would be a waste.

So, that's my thought for the weekend.  Next trip out, my kids are going to join us in the work outside.  This time they helped inside.  Next time they can help outside.  Someday I'll teach them all how to change a tire, change the oil, and use those loppers.

After all, someday that chainsaw will by mine and I need them to know how to clean up some rails.  If that makes me mean, so be it.  I'll take being called a Chinese mother as a compliment.

~ G

Not Such A Crap Mommy

Every now and then one of the kids will do something so sweet it takes my breath away.

Today, Little One walked her stuffed puppy to her bed.  She carried him and said sweet things to him as she laid him... wait, he's a her.  The puppy's a "her."  She told me that on our drive home.  So she was tucking her into bed.

I followed her silently, listening.

She repeated what she's heard me say to her over and over and over and over...

when I'm not cranky.

This is what she's heard.  This is what she is enacting.  She's remembering the sweet mommy times.  She thinks this is how a mommy behaves.

Sigh.  Relief.

Maybe I'm not such a crap mommy after all.

~ G

I'm a Sucker for a Smile

Have you ever noticed how smiling at someone can lighten your day and make a grump smile back?  Little One and I were grocery shopping today.  We had made our way through the store to the toothpaste and toothbrushes.  With coupons, Crest was $0.25 a tube and toothbrushes were free.  (Amen.)

Anyway, a store employee was in front of the display with her huge cart.  Seriously, it was huge.  It was one of those ladder cart things.  It looked like fun to climb, actually.

If the boys had been with us I would have had to hold them back and threaten them with no TV for a week to keep them off it. It looked like the grocery store version of an amusement park.

She was kind of grumpy.  She asked if she was in the way and I said, laughing, "Yes!  You're totally in the way."  I smiled at her.

She laughed.  She smiled. I smiled.

When Little One and I were checking out, the employee was working as a cashier.  She caught my eye and smiled at me.

My grocery shopping day felt so much lighter - even though Little One declared, LOUDLY, in the line that she had to make pee NOW and we had to race to the potty.

*Grin* I'm a sucker for a smile.

~ G

"Hi, Mama. I Just Made Pee."

Ahhh... such sweet words.  Except at 9:30 at night.  When she's been in bed for two hours.  Sound asleep for at least the last hour and a half.  In her Dora undies. And not a diaper.

So, I'm standing in the kitchen, assembling cinnamon rolls, when I hear Little One's sweet voice from the hall behind me.

I gather myself.  I'm calm.  I ask, "where did you make pee?"

"I make pee-pee in the potty."  She says so matter-of-factly.

Do you know what this means?  Do you?  Does anyone know?  Cinnamon rolls to the winner!

She woke up from a sound sleep, realized she needed to go, got up, unzipped her footed jammies, pottied in the potty, dressed herself, came in to report, and went back to bed.  With. Out. Me.

Amen and Hallelujah!

Just had to report.  Now back to the kitchen to clean up my mess.  Cinnamon rolls create quite the pile of dishes.

~ G

Sometimes I'm a Genius

I have a daughter. She is three. She has hair.  Yes, I know you're shocked.  My daughter does not like having her hair washed.  A couple weeks ago she was taking a bath (I was with her, monitoring, per this commitment) and I just dreaded the coming screaming/flailing/pouting/crying/I-don't-want-my-hair-washed event.  Hey, I'm a mom, not superwoman.  Although, you should see me in my skivvies and invisible plane.

She was playing with her rubber ducky and it dawned on me.  What if she washed Ducky's flat, bald, little rubber head hair while I washed her hair?  She could hold him in her lap and while her head was bowed over, focused on washing Ducky, I could wash and condition her hair.  I proposed the idea and she bought into it, lock, stock and rubber ducky.  Yippee!  I'm a genius!  But, before we toast a non-sippy-cupped adult beverage, the real question with a toddler-cum-preschooler is will the genius idea stick?

Yes.  This one did.  Tonight, I sat in the hall reading my free OK magazine brain candy and monitored her bath.  From that position in the hall, I can see her in the tub and hear the boys and also yell at the boys from a acoustically-friendly position.  Near the end of the bath, she ASKED me to wash her hair.  She collected Ducky, asked for shampoo and within a few minutes of non-screaming/flailing, my sweet Little One smelled sweet.

Sometimes I'm a genius.  Now, I'm going to savor the moment until I foul up again.  Sometimes I'm a genius.  The end.

~ G

My Own Beverly Clearly Moment

Little One enjoys a fresh box of crayons with the same abandon Ramona enjoys the first bite of an apple.  Let's just say Middle One and Big Kid have had their school supplies "tested."

~ G

I Should Know By Now

...to hand out popsicles OUTSIDE and not in the kitchen.  We bought $1 popsicle forms at Target this weekend and made our own orange juice pops.  Today the kids wanted some.  Like, duh.

In a moment of sheer stupidity optimism, I handed them their popsicles - from the sink.  It's now possible to follow a sticky, polka-dotted trail from the kitchen sink (where I defrosted the forms enough to remove said popsicles) to Little One's perch at the table this snack time - which happens to be, um, Darling's chair.  There's an amoeba-shaped orange patch by the island where Middle One stood and a series of little drips, courtesy of Big Kid.

Sigh.  You'd think I was a rookie.  ;-)  Time to go Shark the kitchen.

~ G

Tips and Tricks for Domestic Sanity - Cabinets, Pt. 2

Here's how I was able to keep some semblance of normalcy while on bed rest with Little One.  Because I wrote out the boys' schedule, what they would eat, when they napped and played and all the little details about their lives, I could relax a little and let my mom take over.  When my neighbor had time and could come over and help, all she had to do was come in, look at the clock, then open my cabinet door to see what the kids were doing next.  Darling didn't have to ask how I did the laundry or where we kept the extra detergent.

If you are on bed rest or if you have a very helpful MIL or a mom who wants to help with your little ones or if you have the opportunity to leave for the weekend while your husband keeps the kids, I strongly encourage you to write out what someone would need to know to do your job as a SAHM.

The boys' daily schedule, with recipes above.  This list is still up for two reasons: One, it helps me when my brain fails and I need to remember what on earth we do after lunch.  Two, I'm a sentimental fool and can't bear to take it down until I know how I want to store/preserve it.  

"If boys are busy and happy and you need a diversion..."  This is my "how to help me around the house" list.

All the emergency info.

~ G

When Is a Wipe More Than a Wipe?

Last night I had to make a mad dash quick run to the Target pharmacy. While racing in like a mad woman because the pharmacy was closing walking in with calm decorum, I scrolled through all the nonsense in my brain, trying to remember what on earth I'd written on the ever-renewing store list on the fridge.  Wipes.  We were almost out of baby wipes.

Paid-for prescription procured, I stood in the checkout line with my huge box of wipe refills.  740 wipes or something. Basically, it's 8 refill packs for the wipes box.  Chances are very good that Little One will be potty-trained before we run out.  I stared at that box, thinking how it represented  a huge milestone for Little One, for me, for our family.  She's our last baby and it was quite possibly the last package of baby wipes I'd ever buy for my babies.

So I stood there in line, really wanting to talk about it to someone.  Usually there's a mom or dad in line and comments about wipes and babies and babies growing up don't seem too weird.  Usually we can laugh or smile or encourage one another in a few seconds' exchange.  Alas, the muscle-bound, very single-looking dude behind me buying a single pillow (seriously, who goes to Target and buys ONE item???) didn't look like he wanted to talk about babies and how they grow.

Okay.  That's not quite true.  I made some kind of brilliant hysterical comment about how my big box of wipes didn't look like a whole lot of fun.  Now, had he been a parent, he would have had some kind of telling response.  He didn't.  He looked confused.  Clearly, he's not the guy to chat with about wipes and babies.

So I stood there in line, thinking how I'm not all broken up about getting close to the end of the baby chapter in my life. No sniffles.  Just peace.  I've been through plenty of therapy in my short little life and I found myself doing an emotions check.  Okay.  That's not quite true, either.  I've always been a navel-gazer introspective.  Just ask my mother.  I digress.

The point is I'm okay.  I'm sure I'll shed a quiet tear of acknowledgment when the day comes, like the day we converted her crib to a toddler bed and like the day she wanted to walk and hold my hand as we went into the grocery store, rather than being held.  But, I feel very differently than I did when Big Kid graduated from diapers and finally potty trained. My first baby was growing up and I wasn't ready to let go of those days.  I wasn't finished with babies.  I wasn't ready to be done.  I had more mothering-of-babies in me.  When Middle One got there, I felt more stoic - like it was something to bear and I would be just fine, thank you.  Of course, by the time Middle One got there, I'd miscarried twice in the past year and I was so-oh-oh sure God had finished blessing us with babies.

Before Little One arrived, I always believed women who said they were done with makin'-the-babies and were happy with the number of children they had were lying to themselves.  I didn't think it was ever possible to feel satisfied, that the desire to carry and birth and hold a new baby could never leave.  I was wrong.  I was very, very, naively wrong.  The minute Little One was placed in my arms, I felt such peace about being finished having babies, I don't think I can adequately explain it.  We were a complete family.  I felt satisfied and calm and... right with the world.  It didn't feel like anyone was missing anymore.  We were all present.  We are all present

So there I stood with my big 'ol box of wipes on the conveyor belt, the box that's still sitting in the kitchen, the box that will get moved to Little One's closet today.  And now I'm thinking about how much I love this journey, how thankful I am to be the mother of three children who are here and healthy, how thankful I am that God trusted me with life, how I relish watching my children grow, and how I'm excited for the next chapter of our lives, and curious to see who they become.  Dang.  And now I have tears brimming and threatening to tumble down my cheeks.

When is a wipe more than a wipe?  When there is a Mommy is attached to it.

~ G

I Am a Shallow, Horrible Woman

This is one of those posts that could possibly get me international attention as the worst mother in the world.  I promised I would say it like it is and be truthful.  This is an anonymous blog, so I should be able to lay it out there, right?  The following could possibly cause my comment box to be filled with nasty, vile declarations of how wretched I am.  I accept that.  Here goes:

I'm crushed by Little One's appearance sans three front teeth.  Darling says he can't tell a difference.  A dear friend who came over yesterday said she couldn't tell.  But I can.  I can tell.  She doesn't look the same to me.  Her upper lip caves in a little, like an old man who needs to put in his dentures.  I keep looking at her, trying to focus above her nose, hoping to see my little girl's face like I know her.  She doesn't look the same to me.  I don't think the lack of teeth makes her cute.  Her face looks like I've done something wrong, like I've failed.  This isn't like a broken limb or a cut that will heal in a few weeks or even a few months.  This is the way it is until her permanent teeth come in several years from now.

I'm afraid that because she doesn't look the same I will treat her differently and it'll affect how she grows and what kind of woman she becomes.  I'm afraid that because she isn't as impossibly cute to me without those top front teeth that I will subliminally treat her as if she's less than.  And she isn't.  She's still herself.  She's still hysterically funny and precious.  She just doesn't look the same.  I'm shocked at how much her appearance bothers me.  I'm shocked by my shallowness.  I've always been the one who doesn't care about clothing labels or hair styles or anything much beyond basic hygiene and comportment.  My reaction has stunned and shamed me.  How shallow and horrible am I?  How terrible am I that her appearance matters so much to me?  Or am I just saying what most mothers would feel and are too ashamed to say?

I keep imagining what the women at the park will say or ask or think.  It's a looped litany in my head: What a horrible mother for not paying close enough attention to her daughter that she got hurt enough that her baby teeth were so damaged three of them had to be removed.  What are they - white trash who can't afford a dentist?  What does she feed her that her teeth rotted out - nothing but sugar?  Do they not know to brush their kids' teeth?  What's the deal - three kids and by the third they don't care enough to keep close watch on them?  They shut down by the third?  Well, that's what happens when you have more kids than you can handle.  That's why you should only have two kids - one for each hand.  What trashy people.  What a bad mother.  And the worst: She'd be cute if only she had her front teeth.

Darling came home early last night.  Yesterday afternoon was rough and my wonderful husband came home early to alleviate some of the pressure.  While the kids were outside playing and out of ear shot, I fell apart in his arms and told him everything I was thinking and how horrible I feel that she doesn't look like herself and how I'm a terrible, shallow mother for being upset about her appearance and how I'm afraid it'll change our relationship.  He hugged me.  He held me.  And then he pointed out that Big Kid has a mouthful of weird-looking teeth because his face hasn't grown enough to accommodate his permanent teeth and we don't even notice anymore.  Big Kid's our son and we love him regardless and soon I'll forget how Little One has changed.  She's still our baby.  He reminded me that the surgeon looked at the x-rays and assured us she didn't damage her permanent teeth, as we'd been warned, and that she'll just have a toothless grin for a few years.  A few years in a long life is nothing.  My man is so smart.  God knew what he was doing when he matched us.

So here I sit, watching her play.  She ate lunch and is now drawing circles.  "Circie" she says.  She's happy.  She's not upset at all that she doesn't have her top front teeth.  It hasn't even phased her, except now she bites into food on the side of her mouth, not the front.  Today she ate more comfortably than she has since the accident.  I know I'm completely transferring my worries onto her.  She's healthy and she's happy.  And... she smells like herself again.  And she feels the same in my arms.  She snuggles into me the same way.

Eventually I'll forgive myself, right?

Clueless about this whole post?  Go here and then here.

~ G

Thank You for the Prayers

Little One's surgery was this morning.  Things went well.  Her appointment was moved up because they had a cancellation, so we got in earlier.  We signed in and moments later we were moved to a surgical room.  They were so kind and gentle with her - and with us.  Everything was done quickly and kindly.  Within a minute of it being over, Little One was meowing again.  (Yes, she likes to pretend she's a cat.)  The whole staff turned out to coo over her as we left.  Well, there's not much cuter than a toddler in her jammies and rainboots, holding her blankies and bear.

We got back home and cuddled on the couch. Darling went on to work.  Little One had some ice cream.  She's napping comfortably now.  How am I?  Well, my mama heart is on the mend.  

Thank you for the prayers.  Today felt covered in prayer.  Thanks be to God.

~ G

More on the Mouth

We saw the oral surgeon yesterday.  He agrees that three of Little One's teeth need to be extracted.  He doesn't want to do general anesthesia unless we're at the hospital.  He thinks numbing her up and then just pulling them in the office will suffice.  Given the risks of general anesthesia on a two year-old, Darling and I completely agree.  So, Tuesday morning we'll give her some Motrin an hour before we go in and then that'll be that.

Yesterday, I had to stay after the appointment and talk to the billing lady about how we're paying.  My eyes got misty thinking about coming in to remove my baby's teeth.  She smiled and said I wouldn't be the first mama who cried.  She said she and all the other women cry when the mamas cry because they are mamas, too.  I'm glad to know I won't be the first to blubber up.  Good grief.  It's only teeth.  But she's my baby.  And she's too little to know what's happening.  And I can't explain it in a way she'll understand.  Somehow that makes it worse.  Or maybe it doesn't.  I don't know.  What I know is that should all go well, the day after the extraction, she'll be able to eat normally again and that's a good thing.  Right now she's very uncomfortable.  Sigh. 

Motherhood is not for wimps.  

~ G

Again

Again my brain is focused on Little One.  We saw the pediatric dentist today who said three of her teeth needed to come out - like yesterday.  Lovely.  We have an appointment to see an oral surgeon on Monday and may have to wait for the extraction surgery until later in the week.  Right now I'm waiting to hear from another office about getting in tomorrow and maybe even doing the extraction tomorrow.  We'll see.


So,  the "Faker Truffles" recipe and the Attachment Parenting post will have to wait.  Again. My brain can't focus on much more than caring for the fam right now.  Certainly that's the right order of priorities. 


And if anyone's out there reading... please pray the extraction's easy and quick and that Little One heals like a champ.  Thank you.


~ G

It's About Scent

I'm sure you're tired of hearing me whine about Little One and her teeth.  I'm sick of myself.  This morning I realized what was - is? - throwing me and messing with my emotions.  I can handle her soon-to-be front-toothless grin.  Seriously, I'm not that shallow.  What's upsetting my senses is that Little One's breath currently lacks that sweet baby's breath scent.  She's two.  She has sweet, fresh breath.  Right now her breath smells like blood and a little like decay.  Upsetting, yes?  Right now my baby doesn't smell like my baby and it's upset my senses, thus throwing my emotions for a loop.


The good news is that just like anything that's finally unveiled and not shrouded in worrisome mystery, it's not bothering me today nearly as much as it was yesterday.  Soon enough those little wounded teeth will fall out, her mouth will heal, and she'll smell like my baby again.  Unless she's been playing outside.  Then she'll smell like a puppy. 


Wondering what on earth I'm talking about?  Go here.


~ G

Baby Teeth

The plan today was to write about Attachment Parenting.  It's been on my mind a lot lately and I've been trying to arrange my thoughts into some semblance of a coherent post.  But, it's not going to get written today.  My mind is focused on Little One and her teeth.


Remember me telling you that she might lose 1-4 baby teeth? (For the whole story, go here.) Well, things were looking good.  The bruising lessened.  Her teeth felt firmly planted in her gum.  We've even brushed her teeth properly.  She started eating normal foods again this weekend and now those front teeth look crooked and weird.  I finally reached in her mouth today and one of the front ones wobbles terribly.


I panicked.  My calm and cool in the face of emergencies still hasn't returned.  If you see it somewhere, please send it home, because I really miss feeling calm and cool and collected when things look bleak.  So, I panicked and I called the pediatric dentist who said to put her back on soft foods for a month.  A month.


He also suggested calling the oral surgeon to see if the teeth could be saved, but we're probably talking about  root canals - on a 2.5 year old.  It would require general anesthesia.  On a 2.5 year old.  And lots of pain for several days.  And lots and lots of money.  But, I made an appointment with the oral surgeon, just for a consultation. 
 
I tried calling Darling, but he wasn't available.  I decided to call the orthodontist and the speech therapist to get more opinions.  Going to great lengths makes no sense unless not having those teeth will make a big difference in her future life.  The orthodontist said if she loses all four teeth that she'll just have a gappy smile longer and her permanent teeth might come in sooner, neither of which are bad things.  The speech therapist said if she's already articulating her sounds then losing her teeth won't necessarily wreck her speech.


So.  Darling and I just need to sit down and talk about it.  I can't see putting a toddler under general anesthesia just to save a few baby teeth she will definitely lose in a few years.  Darling might have another perspective.  Making big decisions can't happen until we talk and I'll feel a little at odds and ends until we talk.  In the meantime, here I am, blathering on about it.


Little One doesn't have much of an appetite today.  She acts like herself.  She doesn't appear to be hurting.  Me, on the other hand, I'm a little sick at heart and a little sick to my stomach.  I realize in the big scheme of things, this is not a big deal.  I get that.  I do.  I know there are things that would make me wish we were only talking about losing a few teeth.  But, like I tell people about grieving, emotions are emotions and you can't compare your hurt and ache to others.  Mama Worry is Mama Worry.


~ G