Dear Kaylee,
This has been a crazy month for you. Or at least, it has been a crazy month for me, watching you go through a bunch of stuff you might not even remember when you’re older. First and foremost, of course, was your surgery. Watching you experience that was the hardest thing I’ve had to do as your mother. Childbirth was nothing compared to this, because even when the epidural stopped working and I was such intense pain, at least I was the only one suffering. Watching you suffer is so much worse. All I could do was hold you and let you sob and wail that you wanted to go home. I whispered in your ear that you were going to be ok, but you were crying so hard I don’t think you heard me.
I’ve said over and over that one of my worries as a mother is that your earliest memory will be something awful. While I want you to remember playing Play-Doh with your daddy, you’ll end up hanging onto that skinned knee you got in the driveway. So of course, this surgery currently tops the list of things I hope you’ll forget about. You were kind of excited when we got to the hospital that day, but it didn’t take long before you got a little worried. By the time the anesthesiologist stopped by to brief us, I could tell you were getting downright scared. When I told the doctor that his normal procedure for calming kids was probably not going to work on you, he prescribed something to “calm you down” beforehand. At first it worked, and I admit it was pretty entertaining to watch your head bob and listen to your words slur like you were a college freshman at your first kegger. But the fun ended quickly when you realized you couldn’t control your body anymore. From then on, if you were awake you were crying. When I carried you into the operating room – which, by the way, taught me how important your cooperation is when I’m carrying you down a long hallway – the anesthesiologist seemed mildly horrified that his plan to calm you had backfired so badly. He tried to comfort me by saying you probably wouldn’t remember any of this – the sobbing, the lying on the table, the operating room. The anesthesiologist put a mask on your face and told you a little story to explain the odor of the gas you were breathing in – a story about a little pig that is very, very friendly, but smells very bad. But he’s a nice pig, and he makes you feel sleepy.
I took some solace in the idea that you wouldn’t remember that trauma … for about a day. Because that’s how long it took you to bring it up. We were playing with Legos when you looked at me and said, “That man told me a story.” “What man, sweetie?” I asked. “When I was laying on the bed, the man told me a story.” “What was the story about?” “A pig.” Oh. Well. So much for that idea. You’ve also reminded us about the pink medicine that made you feel sick, and how you threw up in the driveway when we got home from the hospital. But you don’t seem sad, scared or angry when you mention these things. You say them matter-of-factly, as if you’re commenting on the weather. I think you’ll be just fine.
All the emotional trauma aside, your eye looks so much better. You still get comments from people in public – “You should sit down in that cart, kid, or you’re going to get another black eye!” – that make me want to smack people and say hateful things to them. I want to grab them by the shoulders and yell, “Yes, she has an angry red mark on her face, but she’s beautiful and healthy and bythewayfuckyou.” It’s possible I’m a little defensive. But one of these days it should heal up all the way with minimal scarring, and we will be very lucky people if this is the worst thing that ever happens to you.
In other news, you’ve been going out of your way to try my patience lately. You ask me questions that have no correct answer, and you scream your little head off no matter how I respond. I often think a question is innocuous, only to find out you’re deeply concerned with the answer. “Is this chocolate milk old?” “Yeah, I’ll get you some new chocolate milk.” “NOOOOOO! I DON’T WANT CHOCOLATE MILK!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” These conversations are, ahem, frustrating. I’m trying to stand my ground a little more firmly these days, to let you know this behavior is not acceptable. A cashier at Bed, Bath and Beyond the other day seemed to think I was the Asshole Mother of the Year because I refused to let you change your mind about what little toy you wanted to buy. She didn’t know you’d already changed your mind a few times and would likely spend ten minutes deciding whether you wanted the cow keychain or the penguin keychain, while the line lengthened behind us. So I made you stick with the quacking duck pen you’d already picked out and you threw a little fit while the cashier quietly judged me for being a bitch. I used to judge mothers, too, when I saw them taking a stand on something seemingly unimportant, like a stupid little duck pen. Why won’t she just let her pick something else? It’s not that big of a deal, I would have thought. I didn’t understand that it’s never just the pen, that kids will always try to push you one step farther, and then one more, and before you know it they’re running the whole household. So your father and I are trying. We’re trying to mold you into someone a little less tyrannical and a little more friendly. It helps if we reward you with stickers.
You are also completely unexcited about Robbie’s increasing coordination and mobility. Sure, you’ll help me cheer him on and try to get him to crawl, but once you realize he’s headed for your toys, the cheering stops and the whining begins. We’ve had more than one conversation about how “but I don’t want him to touch my stuff” is not a good enough reason to snatch a stuffed animal away from him and make him cry. During your surgery, Robbie spent two nights at Gram and Papa’s apartment. Every time we’ve gone back, you’ve been crushed to hear we’re not leaving him there again. You used to get upset when I’d joke about leaving him behind somewhere, but now you think it sounds like a great idea. I’m sorry, kiddo, but we’re going to have to keep him.
No offense, but I’m glad this month is over. We’ve passed the surgery milestone, but we’re headed for more challenges in the coming weeks. I believe we’ll be all right. But if the changes are too much for you, just know that I will always, always be here for you if you need to put your head on my shoulder and cry.
I love you, my little monkey butt.
Love,
Mommy
