Tough Moments
Being a mom is incredible. There is nothing in my life more rewarding than developing a relationship with the tiny, beautiful human I took part in creating, and nothing more special than seeing her explore the world.
But being a mom is also scary. Case in point: tomorrow, my sweet, perfect, beautiful girl is going to have surgery.
When she was born, we noticed a small bump on the bridge of her nose that has since grown bigger. Our pediatrician recommended that we see a pediatric plastic surgeon, who diagnosed it as a cyst and recommended that we have it removed as soon as possible so that it doesn't get infected in the future or cause her any other problems.
So a few months ago, she needed an MRI to make sure that the cyst wasn't rooted in her bones or her brain (which would be very rare, but possible, and would mean that our doctor would have to prepare for a very different surgery). In doing so, she needed to go under general anesthesia so that she didn't move while in the machine.
As a mom, I faced my first truly "tough mom moment" on the day of her MRI. The anesthesiologist allowed one of us to be with her when they administered the anesthesia, and since she's been quite the little mommy's girl lately, the choice was a quick one. I hugged my husband and bravely walked to another room with the doctors. There, I could see Charlotte looking around at the many strangers who surrounded her. Being only 11 months old, I couldn't very well explain to her what was happening, or why, or that she was going to be just fine. Instead, I had to comfort her while they put a gas mask over her nose and mouth and watch her squirm until she went still. During that moment (which surely didn't last more than 30 seconds but felt like an eternity), I knew that her only source of comfort was that I was right there with her, holding her hand and singing her a lullaby. But when she stopped moving and they asked me to leave, I lost it. I managed to hold it together long enough for her to be comforted by my presence, but then I wept - first in the arms of a kind MRI technician and then in the comfort of my husband's embrace. Thankfully, the MRI didn't last more than an hour and a half and she responded well to the anesthesia. She was back to her normal self by that afternoon, and the results were normal so we were able to proceed with scheduling a "simple" surgery to remove the cyst. I succeeded in being tough, as difficult as it was, for the sake of my baby.
So tomorrow, when we essentially retrace our steps from two short months ago, I am somehow comforted by the fact that I will be able to serve as a comfort to her - and that I will again prove to myself that being a mom is scary, and difficult, and more wonderful than I every could have dreamed. And the good, without a single doubt, outweighs the bad.
But being a mom is also scary. Case in point: tomorrow, my sweet, perfect, beautiful girl is going to have surgery.
When she was born, we noticed a small bump on the bridge of her nose that has since grown bigger. Our pediatrician recommended that we see a pediatric plastic surgeon, who diagnosed it as a cyst and recommended that we have it removed as soon as possible so that it doesn't get infected in the future or cause her any other problems.
So a few months ago, she needed an MRI to make sure that the cyst wasn't rooted in her bones or her brain (which would be very rare, but possible, and would mean that our doctor would have to prepare for a very different surgery). In doing so, she needed to go under general anesthesia so that she didn't move while in the machine.
As a mom, I faced my first truly "tough mom moment" on the day of her MRI. The anesthesiologist allowed one of us to be with her when they administered the anesthesia, and since she's been quite the little mommy's girl lately, the choice was a quick one. I hugged my husband and bravely walked to another room with the doctors. There, I could see Charlotte looking around at the many strangers who surrounded her. Being only 11 months old, I couldn't very well explain to her what was happening, or why, or that she was going to be just fine. Instead, I had to comfort her while they put a gas mask over her nose and mouth and watch her squirm until she went still. During that moment (which surely didn't last more than 30 seconds but felt like an eternity), I knew that her only source of comfort was that I was right there with her, holding her hand and singing her a lullaby. But when she stopped moving and they asked me to leave, I lost it. I managed to hold it together long enough for her to be comforted by my presence, but then I wept - first in the arms of a kind MRI technician and then in the comfort of my husband's embrace. Thankfully, the MRI didn't last more than an hour and a half and she responded well to the anesthesia. She was back to her normal self by that afternoon, and the results were normal so we were able to proceed with scheduling a "simple" surgery to remove the cyst. I succeeded in being tough, as difficult as it was, for the sake of my baby.
So tomorrow, when we essentially retrace our steps from two short months ago, I am somehow comforted by the fact that I will be able to serve as a comfort to her - and that I will again prove to myself that being a mom is scary, and difficult, and more wonderful than I every could have dreamed. And the good, without a single doubt, outweighs the bad.
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