Category Archive

Yesterday as I was pushing Zoe in the grocery cart across the parking lot to our car, she suddenly said “I can’t feel a thing.” I asked what she was talking about. “The cream that Dr. Gavaris put on my eyebrow worked. I can’t feel a thing. It didn’t hurt when he took the stitches out.”

Taking the stitches out, and the numbing cream that preceded it, happened last Thursday afternoon. I guess Zoe was replaying the event in her head, and she remarked on it as if it had just happened, or was happening again. This startled me.

Zoe has healed remarkably well from the surgery. Physically she was back to herself within a day, with only occasional moments of mild pain during the week that followed. She was energetic and eager to play. In fact, one of the week’s biggest challenges was keeping her (and me) from going crazy inside, since she was under doctor’s orders not to go out, at least anywhere where she could hurt herself or get sand or dirt in her eye.

What no one discussed with us, and what we hadn’t thought to anticipate, was her emotional healing. Randy and I have both had surgeries and know that they are both physically and emotionally draining. We don’t really know anything about how three-year-olds handle such things. But apparently we’re learning.

One way Zoe is handling it is by getting angry. A new and unwelcome phase of pouting began a few weeks prior to the surgery, and has escalated, in part I think, as a reaction to it. If something happens that she doesn’t like, she will walk away and fold her arms and make it clear to us that she is keeping her distance. She will often say “I’m not going to talk to you” or “I’m not going to do anything fun.” Last weekend after she had played with Randy for a couple hours while I was upstairs cleaning, she became irritated when Randy came upstairs to talk with me and we were no longer focusing our attention on her. For some odd reason she started licking a tupperware container that was in the room and I told her to stop, saying it was disgusting to lick things that aren’t food. A few minutes later she was back downstairs and yelled up to us “It’s disgusting when you don’t play with me!”

She is acutely aware of her anger and is trying to navigate it. Recently she said “it’s great when I’m happy and in a good mood and I want to do fun stuff, but when I’m really angry or sad I don’t want to do anything fun. I don’t know how to make those bad feelings go away.” Good question. We brainstormed with her about possible things she could do or we could do with her to make the bad feelings go away. The only option she seemed to like was we could play together. Certainly, that’s a good option, but not always possible. I don’t know if she gets so upset when we’re not playing with her because she’s three and wants the attention, or because she’s feeling extra vulnerable, or both.

Zoe has also asked a lot of questions about the surgery, including why she had to have it. We’ve done our best to explain. She frequently looks in the mirror to inspect her eyes and comments about how the left one opens wide and the right one doesn’t open as much. This is true. When we went to the doctor for the follow-up visit to get her stitches out, she absorbed everything. Afterward, she quizzed me about what the doctor had said. To take the stitches out, the doctor asked me to sit in the chair and hold Zoe, and he tilted the chair back. The nurse stood to assist and stroked Zoe’s leg while I held her. Zoe didn’t make a sound. The nurse said she was taking deep breaths. At least something I’ve taught her has sunk in. As we were leaving the office she announced in the waiting room “it’s fun to get your stitches out! I’m a brave little patient!” And she was.

Yesterday she was back at school, and I was volunteering in her class. She told her teacher bits and pieces about her surgery, including how the breathing mask smelled like a ring pop, and how it made her fall asleep after she held it on her face, and how she didn’t really want it on her face. Her teacher asked her how brave she had been and she held her arms out as wide as they could go and said “this brave!”

Last night I picked her up at my parents’ house and hugged her and kissed her. I guess I accidentally kissed somewhere near her left eye, because she said “Mommy, don’t kiss my eye. I had surgery.” Oh right.

At the moment Zoe is lying on the floor, wearing her pink polka-dotted Hello Kitty rain boots, watching her new Sid the Science Kid dvd, rolling a ball around, and hugging Ralph. She ate a little lunch, downed her tylenol and antibiotic, allowed us to apply goop to her stitches, and devoured a vanilla pudding reward. Today has already been a much better day than yesterday.

When she woke up this morning, after sleeping through the night (no puking!) she called us in. “Mommy! Come in here! There’s a big problem!” Uh oh. I jumped out of bed and ran into her room. She was sitting up in bed. I asked what the problem was. “My flower night light wasn’t on last night!” Whew. Not actually a big problem. I explained that we didn’t turn the flower night light on because it’s pretty bright (lest you worry that she was in the dark, she also has a turtle night light, a cow night light, and a Tinkerbell night light that were on) and her eyes were very sensitive to light yesterday. She said “when I was falling asleep, and I saw the flower night light wasn’t on, I said ‘oh man!'”

Her energy level is definitely back to normal. We were expecting maybe 50% after she was at zero yesterday following the surgery, but she ramped up to 100% after a good night’s sleep. Her resilience is impressive. Today we’ve played legos, play kitchen, and dolls. And watched some tv. I have completely abandoned my usual guilt feelings about the tv because I think the sitting still is good for her and using both her eyes.

Looking at her eyes is kind of unsettling. Not because of the stitches, which are scabbing over. But because she doesn’t look like herself. For three years we’ve known that her eyelids were droopy, and that the ptosis in her left lid was more severe. But that’s just the way she was. Sometimes her left eye opened more than other times. Now her left eye is open, and open wide. And her right lid, which always seemed normal, now seems like it’s less open than the left. It’s kind of freaking me out. The doctor said that her right lid will probably lower a little as time goes on, but it’s unlikely they’ll be exactly even. It seems so strange to see her eyes uneven now because it wasn’t just the way she was born, it was something that was done to her. It’s great that it was done, because she will be able to see better, but it’s still very unsettling.

It is likely that she will have another surgery in a few years, which will probably be on both lids to make them even. Already not looking forward to that, but I’ll try not to think about it. The reason she would have to have another is because the material they used yesterday is artificial, and doesn’t last forever. When she’s older they would use human tissue, either from a cadaver or her own leg. That tissue would grow as she grows and keep her eyelid muscles opening for good. Thinking too much about all that makes my stomach clench and my head swim.

In the meantime, I am so relieved to see her playing and joking around instead of wailing and clutching to us, or throwing up. Hallelujah.

Randy and I are both feeling buoyed by all the love and support and encouragement we’ve received over the past few days. My parents were at the hospital with us yesterday and picked up prescriptions and lunch for us yesterday. Friends have brought us dinners, snacks, and baking soda. Friends took our pukey rug to the dry cleaner. Another friend is bringing her steam cleaner over tomorrow. And the messages of empathy and compassion and love we’ve received by email and on Facebook and by phone have given us much comfort.

We’re supposed to keep Zoe home for a week while her eye heals. Day one is going well. It helps that it’s chilly and rainy so she hasn’t yet asked to go to the playground, which is prohibited because of the sand. She also hasn’t requested a bubble bath, on one of her favorite activities, also prohibited for a few days so soap doesn’t get in her eye. And rejoining her preschool rugby team is definitely out of the question.

But the bulbs we planted in the backyard have started to sprout, and the two little pots of basil have sent tiny green leaves shooting up through the dirt. We will find new things to do to amuse ourselves.

Pictures: top: the day before surgery. middle: waiting for the surgeon. bottom: the day after.

So this weekend we launched Phase I of Tell Zoe About Her Operation. Kind of by accident. Last week I ordered some Caillou videos from Amazon. Caillou is one of Zoe’s favorite shows. It is not one of mine. Mainly because we have seen every Caillou episode that exists, many multiple times. We own two Caillou dvds and we have watched those so many times that I am often tempted to destroy them, or at the very least hide them. But I get the impression that Zoe finds Caillou comforting. So I ordered some new ones for after the surgery.

We arrived home after a family outing to the playground and the package was on our doorstep. Somehow it was opened. Of course, Zoe was excited and wanted to watch immediately. We figured then was as good a time as any to explain.

So we sat her down and said the Caillou videos were a treat for her after the operation she was going to have. I said in a couple weeks we would go to the hospital, just like Franklin (the turtle) goes to the hospital and Curious George goes to the hospital. Zoe loves reading about and playing doctor. We recently got a book from the library called Daisy the Doctor and we’ve all read it to her many times. And she knows Mommy and Daddy and Poppy have all had operations and come home needing to rest, but otherwise ok. So I briefly explained that the doctor was going to work on her eye so it can open more and that will make it easier for her to see. And afterward we’ll go home and watch videos. She said “OK” and slid off my lap to go play.

I imagine this information will be simmering in her brain and she’ll come back soon with questions. Then we’ll launch Phase II, whatever it may be.

It turns out that in addition to being attached to my bank and credit cards, driver’s license, and all those frequent buyer cards that were in my wallet, I was also attached to the wallet itself. I had to buy a new one today after my wallet was stolen last night. The new wallet is a cheerful red, but it seems sad and desolate because it is completely empty. Not even loose change. I doubt I will ever remember all the cards I had in there. Perhaps I didn’t really need them. What I really hope is that they’re in a trash can somewhere, discarded by the wallet thief rather than in use. I would hate to think the thief is on his way to get a free smoothie because my smoothie card already had enough holes punched.

I am reminding myself over and over that it’s a hassle but it’s just a thing. Last night it seemed overwhelming, like yet another item in the list of unfortunate events in my family’s lives as of late. But it’s just a thing. Just a thing. And the police officer who came to make the report and the people at the bank were all very friendly and helpful.

Today Zoe had her 3-year checkup with the pediatrician, who pronounced her healthy. The phone rang today and a new client was on the other end. It’s spring. We have a house. Randy has a job. Zoe wrote her name the other day. These are all infinitely more important than the frustration of losing a wallet. It’s just a thing.

The other night at bedtime Zoe suddenly sat up and very earnestly said to me “Mommy, I really want to have a baby in our family.” Oh man. So do we, Zoe, so do we.

I explained to her that Mommy and Daddy really want a baby in our family too, and that we’re doing our best to make that happen, but that it can take a long time for the baby to appear in Mommy’s belly.

Zoe routinely begins conversations with “When I’m a big sister…” and “When we have a baby we can…” and “This would be a great toy for our baby!” All as if I am pregnant and about to deliver her into big sisterhood any day now. I wish.

When I was pregnant last fall, I hoped that Zoe would catch the big sister vibe from two good friends of ours whose second babies were expected to arrive in November and December. I guess it worked.

Even though she can’t read, Zoe is a keen observer and when we go to the library, she manages to find every available book about babies, having a new baby, and being a big sister or brother. Maybe she does recognize the word sister, or just knows a baby picture when she sees it. Sometimes it wears me out to read all those books about big sisters and new babies. Frequent reminders of what I haven’t yet been able to achieve.

At bedtime she also frequently asks me to tell the story of when she was born, and she has drawn several pictures of me when I was pregnant with her. She even knows the word pregnant.

We hadn’t told her last fall that I was pregnant, precisely because we didn’t want to have to tell her if I suddenly wasn’t, which turned out to be the case. I wonder if we’ll be able to hold off next time (assuming there is a next time, praying and hoping that there is and it is sooner rather than later) because somehow I feel like she’ll sense it with her baby radar and the acute awareness of a big sister in training.

Thank you to my friend Tammy for sending me this poem by Maya Stein. It seems apropos.

BELIEVE

Maybe the camera crew is at someone else’s house, a spotlight haloing over another’s fleshy story. Maybe the mailman is delivering the good news to your neighbor, or a different city entirely,and you come home to a rash of catalogues, the second notice for a doctor’s bill, a plea from the do-gooders for whatever you can spare.

Maybe you haven’t cleaned your kitchen floor in weeks, forgotten to nourish the front garden, spilled too much coffee in your car, weaving through traffic.

Maybe you are 10 pounds heavier than last year.

Maybe your skin is betraying your age.

Maybe winter is ravaging your heart.

Maybe you are afraid, or lonely, or furious, or wanting out of every commitment you entered with vigor and trust.

Maybe you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, chosen your meals badly, ignored the advice of those who know you best.

Maybe you are stubborn as a toddler.

Maybe you are clumsy or foolish or hasty or reckless.

Maybe you haven’t read all the books you’re supposed to.

Maybe your handwriting is still illegible after all these years.

Maybe you spent too much on a pair of shoes you didn’t need.

Maybe you left the window open and the rain ruined the cake.

Maybe you’ve destroyed everything you wanted to save.

Still.

If anything, believe in your own strange loveliness. How your body, even as it stumbles, angles for light.

The way you hold a dandelion with such yearning and tenderness, the whole world stops spinning.

—Maya Stein

After squirming and whimpering and squeezing her eyes shut as best she could while the nurse attempted to pry them open to apply three sets of eye drops, Zoe earned a lollipop from said very persistent nurse. We were out in the hall and Zoe was marveling at her lollipop. “That was fun!” she said. “Getting the eye drops?” I asked. “Yes!” she said. I guess the reward of the lollipop was so incredibly exciting that it erased entirely her memory of the eyedrops. The miracle of candy.

We spent nearly two hours today at the Children’s Hospital outpatient center for opthalmology and other specialities for a consultation with an eye surgeon about the next step toward treating Zoe’s ptosis (droopy eyelid). She was born with ptosis in both eyes, but it is most severe in her left. Her father was born with the same condition and had two surgeries of his own as a child to repair it.

I was disappointed (but not as much as Zoe) at the lack of toys in the waiting room. I had (naively) promised toys because I expected Children’s Hospital would furnish them in a room full of waiting children. There were books and tvs, but no toys. Luckily I had brought some of ours, but someone else’s toys are always more intriguing, especially when you’re waiting.

Overall Zoe was very cooperative and patient, the eye drop incident notwithstanding. She did a great job with the vision tests, and impressed the doctors because she knew all her letters. She has long since graduated from using the picture vision test. The doctors were great with her, and were extremely gentle, patient, and soothing. That certainly helped.

We’ve been seeing an eye doctor since Zoe was a baby to monitor the condition to make sure it hasn’t impaired her vision or development, and to watch for strabismus, the other (and more serious) eye condition that Randy has. So far no sign of strabismus, which is great. So we’ve known since the beginning that Zoe would one day have to have surgery.

Apparently that day is upon us, or at least will be on April 23. The surgeon will be someone we met with last week, who is affiliated with Children’s and comes highly recommended by the doctor we saw today. The surgery will be at Children’s.

I have been reminded by dozens of people–strangers and friends–who have offered their advice on how to prepare a child for surgery, that we are not alone. I am thankful that Zoe’s condition is easily treatable and correctable and hopefully will have no lingering effects. But of course it is still scary. I have three kids books on the way, including Curious George Goes to the Hospital, to help introduce the topic. Zoe loves loves loves to read and I believe that slipping these books in our regular reading rotation will make it easier when we have to talk with her about her own surgery.

I’ve heard from a couple parents that the hardest part is when your child wakes up from the anesthesia and completely freaks out and screams and cries for 45 minutes. At least we’ll be prepared. I’ve also heard about the merits of focusing with the child on all the treats she’ll get after the surgery, like ice cream. A little ice cream goes a long way with Zoe. Hopefully that will help.

We had been thinking, at the suggestion of Zoe’s regular eye doctor, that the surgery would be in the summer so she wouldn’t have to miss school (not as if she falls behind if she skips a few days of preschool), but the surgeon we saw last week encouraged us to have it done sooner rather than later so we wouldn’t have to keep Zoe away from the pool or the beach this summer as she recovers. So suddenly it is scheduled, one month from today. Zoe will be three by then and I will have just turned 36. Hopefully my present will be a healthy little girl who can see just a little better.

I realized recently that I have long felt like I need to be anxious or stressed about something to demonstrate, to myself or to others, that I care about it. I worried somehow that if I didn’t worry, it meant I was shallow or uncaring.

This idea is something that had been slowly emerging from the sand in my brain for many months. It became more apparent during Zoe’s recent spate of separation anxiety, which manifested itself in her crying every day when I left her at school or day care. The freaking out at school particularly unnerved me because she had been happily scampering off to play in her classroom every school day for two years, and the reluctance to unglue herself from my leg seemed rather sudden and confusing. Of course many many moms and even the director of the preschool assured me that this behavior was perfectly normal and that kids who are almost three can go through a new phase of separation anxiety, even though I might have thought we were long done with all that.

But none of the consolation consoled me. For several weeks after I dropped Zoe off and she was crying I felt like my day (or at least my morning) was wrecked. I couldn’t concentrate. I just worried that she was unhappy, that I had made a bad decision somehow (for working? for not staying at home with her, which is completely financially implausible for our family? by choosing the wrong daycare provider or preschool? by saying or doing the wrong thing when I left her?) None of these things seemed likely or accurate. I knew I hadn’t actually done something wrong. I knew that typically after I left she was fine within minutes or seconds. But I couldn’t shake this overdeveloped feeling of worry/guilt/concern. Somehow I felt like if I wasn’t upset about Zoe getting upset, I wasn’t a good mom, or I didn’t love her enough. Which is absurd. I know I’m a great mom and I know I love my daughter with all my heart. So who am I trying to impress by worrying?

I don’t think anyone will think better of me for feeling wrecked. I know I don’t feel any better. So I’m done with that. I’m leaving it behind. I have other things to worry about.

Last weekend my husband took me away to Wintergreen, a winter sports resort in central Virginia. The trip was his Christmas present to me, including the part where he arranged with my parents to babysit Zoe for the weekend. We’ve had overnights away from Zoe before, but I don’t think (or at least can’t remember) a whole weekend away. It was time.

It was time especially because lately I had begun to forget what our marriage was. Lately it’s seemed more like a parenting partnership or occasionally encounters between business people. Sure we love each other, and I would venture to say that we’re still in love with each other. But when do you have time to be in love?

Zoe is a wonderful little girl. With a lot of energy. Who demands a lot of attention. I have my own business. Randy has a job that has steadily increased in responsibility and that expects employees to work no matter how much snow is on the ground. And then there’s all that other stuff, like finding food to eat and cooking it. Washing and putting away clothes. Paying the overdue bills. So what’s left?

Little time to take care of oneself, much less of one’s partner. And really if you’re doing triage, you know you HAVE to take care of your child, and you HAVE to feed and clothe your family and prevent foreclosure.

So when we went to Wintergreen it was bliss. On the way there I was still kind of tense, having trouble separating myself from everyday stress. Randy was checking email on his phone and returning calls to discuss the details of a possible business trip. It was hard to imagine the weekend would be much different from regular life.

Thankfully cellphone reception on the mountain is very spotty. 🙂

We arrived and checked in and spent 20 absurd minutes trying to get our card key to open the ski locker closet adjacent to our condo, not realizing the front door was 10 feet away. We unpacked and went to dinner at one of the nicer restaurants on the mountain. The kind where they bring you wine and ask who will be tasting. I realize for most grown-ups this is not so unusual, but we don’t get out that much, especially to fancy restaurants. And, being lightweights, we’ve learned that we shouldn’t drink a bottle of wine and dinner and drive home. The waitress kindly informed us when we hesitated over the wine list that we were allowed to order a bottle and bring it home with us. Ah, the joy of sharing a bottle of wine and not having to drive and not having to worry about taking care of a small person after drinking a few glasses. We also enjoyed ordering whatever food we wanted, not having to think about whether it was appropriate to share with Zoe. And most of all, we savored the opportunity to have a long, philosophical conversation without giving a thought to chores we had to do, the possibility that anyone would get impatient or ask to play with us, or work. Oh yeah, this was what dating was like. When you get to spend all this time with someone you love and not think about anything else. I remember now.

We spent the rest of the weekend exploring the resort. We went tubing (hurtling down a mountain in an innertube) Saturday night, luxuriated in massages at the spa, and had a ski lesson. But mostly we walked around holding hands, shared relaxing meals together, and giggled a lot.

Of course there were lots of little kids there who reminded me of Zoe and made me miss her. We called once to check in and she was having a fabulous time with Fuzzy and Poppy, still in her pajamas mid-afternoon. We looked forward to seeing her on Sunday evening, knowing she would run and jump into our arms.

But in the meantime, I was so happy to be with my husband and just have him to myself. To delight in each other’s company and remember all the reasons we wanted to be together in the first place. With a small child and challenging careers and all the rest of what life throws at you, it’s easy to put your marriage on hold. We’ve known each other for seven years now. It was such a great reminder to know the good stuff is still there. You just have to move everything out of the way to find it.

Why are the things we love the most also those which drive us the craziest? For example, an unnamed 2 1/2 year old girl? I am perplexed by the paradoxical sensation of wanting to be with her, snuggle with her, kiss her, smell her, read to her, play with her, laugh with her, teach her things, listen to her funny observations, and tickle her, while at the same time part of me is always cognizant of planning my escape route and frequently reassessing my chances of success. Usually they are slim.

This is particularly the case at bedtime. There I wrestle with the conflicting feelings of admiration of her ability to stall and keep me there in new and creative ways every night (or in the same old ways, because she knows I’m a sucker), enjoyment of spending the time with her and reveling in her presence, and frustration that I’m the world’s most ridiculous parent because it takes at least an hour to complete the bedtime ritual from the time we go upstairs to the (last) time I go out into the hall. It’s too many feelings.

Zoe is the child I always wanted. I’ve known since I was seven years old, when my sister was born, that I wanted to be a mommy. It took me a little longer than I had planned (I remember when I was 12 I decided that by the year 2000 I would be married and have a baby or at least be pregnant. Some things you can’t just make happen through hard work, it turns out.) but I am so fabulously lucky to be the mommy of this little girl. Which is why it feels like such betrayal of myself when I go a little nuts because of her. Tonight I actually said “Zoe, you are trying my patience.” Who AM I? Who SAYS that?

But then as we were sitting on her bed, our introductory position at the end so she can see Tinkerbell casting her glow in the darkness, she was musing about one of the books we had read Lazy Little Loafers, a book about a girl who is concerned that babies don’t have jobs and are sitting around too much. One line in the book speculates that babies are having three-bottle lunches even though they don’t work and they end up tipsy. Another line says something about “Someone else is paying for my Pampers.” Zoe said “it’s funny that the baby was tipsy. That’s a funny word. It’s funny that someone else is paying for my Pampers.” I asked “why is that funny?” She said, “You don’t pay for Pampers. You pay for food. That’s what you do at the grocery store.”

Earlier when we walked in the house after I strolled her home from day care, through a lot of traffic and construction, she said or did something that surprised me and I said “oh dear god.” She looked up at me and said “Are you God?” I said no. I’m not even sure what she was thinking. What does she know about God? What do I?

I love the fact that she is making up jokes, and telling stories, and has very particular taste in music. Of course when I want to listen to my own music, or I’m on the phone and can’t listen to her story or joke, or when, god forbid I need to leave her bedroom because it’s 9:30 and I’d like to have a conversation with my husband, I am not so enthusiastic. But it’s not because I’m a bad mommy, right? I love her, but I’m human.