Say It Enough, You'll Start to Believe It
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Beautiful
Sweet
Silly
Sassy
Athletic
Fearless
Mine
Her daddy thinks we ought to ship her off to a convent in northern Iceland. I would tend to agree.
We might be in trouble with this one.
On her third birthday I told her everything I wanted her to know as she grew.
For her fifth birthday I made a video celebrating her.
Oh how she deserves to be celebrated.
The lone female, sandwiched between all that male.
And today she is six.
Happy Birthday, Katya Rose.
Did you know I’m a ninja? Seriously, I’m like the master at stealth. I’m so good that sometimes?
Sometimes I take myself by surprise.
For example, today’s post about the recent launch of American Girl’s newest Girl of the Year, McKenna comes right on the heels of my post about gymnastics and what an impact that sport has had on my life and continues to have through my daughter.
And it just so happens that McKenna’s story is a gymnastics story.
See how I did that? You might be prone to think that I planned these two posts so that one followed the other – that I worked a bit of organizational magic. But if that’s what you thought, you would be wrong. I placed these two posts side by side without even thinking about it.
Because I’m that good…
Ahem.
So American Girl has officially launched McKenna and I couldn’t be more in love with this new doll. She’s adorable (no surprise there) and her story is inspirational as you would only expect from American Girl. I can’t wait to show Tia this new doll.
From American Girl: McKenna’s story is about a young gymnast who overcomes her struggles with reading by using her strengths. Through tutoring, friendship, and hard work, McKenna gradually develops a renewed, deeper confidence in her abilities. She learns that confidence lies in balancing strengths with weaknesses and using what you know to master what you don’t know. We hope that girls who read McKenna’s stories discover that by focusing on their strengths they can achieve great things, whether it is in academics or any other activities they want to pursue.
McKenna’s story is a chance for young girls to relate to the challenges and obstacles that come with passion and drive. McKenna loves her sport and excels in it, but when she struggles in another area of life, namely academics, she has to admit that she needs help. Mary Casanova, author of the two McKenna books, took some time to share a bit of her heart behind writing McKenna’s story.
“There are many aspects to McKenna’s story that I hope will inspire young girls,” says Casanova. “When McKenna struggles with reading and faces academic challenges at school, she must admit that she needs help and also be willing to accept help to overcome her challenges. That’s not an easy thing to do. It would be wonderful if success in one area, such as sports, equated success in every other area, such as academics. But life doesn’t always work that way. That’s why one of the life skills that is emphasized in the McKenna books is: finding balance.”
With this idea in mind, American Girl has partnered with Save the Children in support of their U.S. Literacy Program. By introducing a companion nonfiction book, Take the Challenge!, featuring various activities, games, and quizzes, American Girl strives to help girls explore their different strengths and abilities. And for every trophy a girl earns through the McKenna Take the Challenge online activity, American Girl is donating $.25 (up to a maximum of $50,000) to help Save the Children supply the tools children in grades K-8 need to increase their reading achievement and provide the guidance and support they need to grow as readers.
In addition to the Take the Challenge initiative, American Girl will continue its partnership with Save the Children in May as part of their Summer Reading initiative, where they will be donating $1.00 (up to a maximum of $100,000) for every American Girl book purchased in the proprietary channels during the promotional time frame. More information on the initiative will be available on the American Girl website later this spring.
I’m not going to lie – American Girl dolls bring out the little girl in me. I may, or may not, have spent time brushing and fixing the hair of Tia’s dolls by myself on more than one occasion. I mean, I’m not saying for sure, but there’s a chance that that’s happened.
More and more, though, I find myself impressed with the company itself and their heartfelt desire to encourage and build up little girls. If any of you were thinking about taking the plunge into American Girl, McKenna is a great place to start – particularly if you have a little girl who needs a little inspiration and encouragement. Visit American Girl.com for more information.
Disclaimer: I am working in conjunction with American Girl to promote the launch of the Girl of the Year, McKenna. In return for my help, I received a McKenna doll. I was not compensated for this post and all opinions expressed are my own. I am grateful to American Girl for the opportunity.
update: We attended a different gym yesterday where Tia was evaluated by a new coach. It was a wonderful experience for me and for her. This coach was extremely encouraging and kind. He actually smiled and praised Tia. Thank you for your encouragement and prayers. Now I have to have the unpleasant conversation with her current gym about why we will be leaving.
Good times…
“You want a job?” he asked in his thick accent and I blinked in surprise. I had only stopped by to meet some local Russians so I could have contacts that would help me practice my language skills. I hadn’t even been thinking of asking for a job, but as I looked around the building I could see something special there so without missing a beat, I answered.
“Da.”
It was August of 2000 and I had been married all of one month. Neither Lee nor I had jobs when we got married. It was very exciting then. Or stressful.
Depends on who you ask.
We moved to Dallas after marriage because we thought Lee had a job lined up there, but it fell through on our honeymoon. I had just graduated from Baylor with a degree in English Professional Writing so it only seemed natural that I should work as a gymnastics coach.
The plan was for me to work at the World Olympic Gymnastics Academy for a little while until I found a full time job, but unexpectedly, coaching at WOGA wound up being the best job I’ve ever had. I loved it so much, in fact, that I continued to work there for two years. While I interviewed for some real, big girl office jobs, I just couldn’t leave the gym.
The environment was so electric that many days I went into work early just to watch the girls train. I watched Carly Patterson learn her famous Arabian dismount and and marveled at a teeny tiny Nastia Liukin flipping up and over the vault.
You never knew who else would be at WOGA, either. Some days you might walk in to see the cast of the Cirque Du Soleil warming up and practicing. Other times I came face to face with five time Olympian Oksana Chusivitania. It was always a surprise coming to work and I loved it.
One of the saddest things about moving away from Dallas was having to leave WOGA. It wasn’t just my work place. The coaches all became dear friends. Because I spoke Russian, Lee and I spent a lot of time with Evgeny Marchenko, Valeryi Liukin and the many, many other wonderful Russian coaches. For me, working there was like a dream. I was paid well and I got to speak Russian every single day.
Having grown up around gymnastics and working in that environment, I have a pretty good understanding of what good coaching is. I watched two All Round Gold Medalists train in their early years and I was mentored and guided as a coach myself. I know what good coaching looks like.
Unfortunately, for the last few months I have had my daughter in a bad coaching environment.
Tia is very good at gymnastics, but I’m a realist. Her daddy is six foot two and I’m five six so math tells me that she is probably going to outgrow gymnastics pretty quickly. I’m not looking to create a champion, but I do want to give her the chance to succeed in a sport she loves for as long as she loves it.
Sadly, the coaches at the gym we’ve had her at have almost killed her love of gymnastics.
Never in my life have I witnessed coaching like this, particularly from a head coach in charge of running the team program. I should have pulled Tia out of this program months ago, but I kept talking to other parents who would assure me this woman wasn’t that bad and she really was good with the kids and everyone who gives her a chance ends up loving her.
I gave her a chance for three months. It’s not working. Every time we need to leave for gymnastics, Tia develops a stomach ache and gets very weepy. She is terrified of this coach – and this woman doesn’t even coach Tia’s team. But she’s in close proximity screaming and shouting at other girls. I’ve honestly never seen anything like it and I worried it was just me.
Maybe I’m too judgemental? Maybe my experience at WOGA turned me into a coaching snob. Nobody else seemed as offended by this coach’s cruelty, so what is my problem?
Saturday I volunteered at a meet at the girl’s gym where I watched the little ones, levels two and three, compete. They didn’t do great, but it was their first meet and good grief they were cute in their little leotards and sparkly hair. As this coach walked by, I remarked, “The girls are doing great.” She cut her eyes at me and shrugged. “Your job is to be encouraging and tell them they’re great,” she said. “My job is to tell them they are never good enough. Unless they make it to State. Then I can tell them they’re good.”
And then I scraped my jaw off the floor, picked up my things and began researching new programs.
Yesterday I called another gym to talk to them about their team program. I wanted to be sensitive to the situation. While I find the coach’s methods at our current gym just short of abusive, I am not going to bad mouth her around town. So I delicately asked, “Do you all make gymnastics fun? Because my daughter is five and I just want her to enjoy it, not spend an hour and a half doing sit ups and pull ups and being barked at to suck in her stomach.”
“Aaahhh…” said the coach on the other end of the phone, “You must be coming from —. We have 2-3 new gymnasts enrolling in our gym every week who are coming from that gym and I can promise you, we do things differently here.”
So it turns out I’m NOT the only one appalled by bad coaching.
If you feel so led, please say a prayer for my sweet daughter’s heart as we try out this new gym. At this point, I think she may be slightly traumatized and we’ve already decided that if we need to pull her out of gymnastics for awhile (or forever) we will. While good coaching can take little girls to the gold medal platform, bad coaching has the power to kill their dreams altogether.
I’m kicking myself for waiting this long.
It was a beautiful December day here in the Sunshine State. Days like today are why people spend their winters in Florida. We spent much of the day soaking in the warm rays of the sun, while also being delighted with a cool breeze.
For those of you who live somewhere cold, please don’t hate me.
The view from my perch.
Around 1:00, the natives grew restless. I didn’t feel right letting them watch a movie on a day like today, and in return they didn’t feel right about letting me sit poolside and read.
Savages.
So after an hour of hearing about the injustice of such imposed boredom and the true cruelty of expecting them to entertain themselves I packed up the antsy brood and off we went to the park where I planned to continue my lounging while they ran off pent up energy.
Upon arriving at the park, I rejoiced to find a long swinging bench mercifully vacant and I settled in for a bit of relaxation only to discover that the smallest of the children had different plans in mind.
“Hey Mom, wanna play house wif us?” Landon asked. I looked over at Tia who widened her eyes pleadingly, which is a completely unfair tactic. Puppy dog eyes are cruel and unusual.
“What do I have to do to play house?” I asked wearily.
“How about you be the Mom and we’ll be the kids,” Tia answered.
Um…
“Okay,” I said. “Kids, go play and let Mommy rest for a bit!”
“No, Mom! That’s not how you play!” Foot stomp.
Seriously?! Puppy dog eyes and a foot stomp? She’s good, ladies and gentlemen.
“But I’m the Mom so I can tell you what to do, right?”
“No, Mom. You have to get up and come over here and drive us to school. Then you have to take us to the store and then you have to take us to Chuck E Cheese. That’s how you play!”
Funny. I always assumed that playing pretend actually took us out of real life.
“Okay,” I said. “But this swinging bench is my car so hop in.” And away we drove. I dropped them off at school, then picked them up, then we headed to the store.
“C’Mon, let’s go shop.”
“Uumm…” I stalled. “Let’s pretend I broke my leg and I have to ride in one of the motorized carts at the store. This bench will be my cart.”
“Aw, yeah!” they yelled and away we went. Notice that so far, I haven’t had to move from my bench.
Finally the “errands” were done and we arrived home. “Alright, you guys go play now,” I said waving them on, stepping out of my role as pretend Mom and into my role as real Mom. It’s all very confusing, I know…
“No, Mom! Now you need to make dinner!”
*sigh*
“Tell you what,” I reasoned. “How about you be the Mom now and I will be the long lost Aunt who came for a visit, okay?”
“Alright! What’s your name?”
“Uh…Toto? Oh and hey – let’s pretend that I came from far, far away and I’m super tired so I have to lay down and sleep. How does that sound?”
“Hey, yeah!” they cried. “And this bench can be your bed and we will rock you while you sleep!”
Deal!
So I laid down, closed my eyes and they rocked me back and forth, back and forth until I literally began dozing off.
“Mom. Hey Mom!” They shook me and I squinted up into their displeased eyes.
“This game is boring,” Tia said with a frown. “We don’t want to play anymore.”
“Yeah,” echoed Landon. “It’s bowing.”
“Can we go play on the playground?” Tia asked.
I looked at them for a silent moment then let out a small sigh. “Well, alright. If you really want to go play, I guess I don’t mind.” And off they ran, forgetting all about needing my entertainment. I laid back down then, my swing moving slowly back and forth in the afternoon breeze. Alone.
Seriously. I should get some kind of award for that…
First things first: To the individuals responsible for deciding and implementing the change in policy that allows children to leave their shoes on while going through airport security, please send me your name and address. I would like to send you cookies.
Or…no, I want to send you a fruit basket.
If I could kiss you, I would. But that would be weird. I feel compelled, however, to do something to convey my sincere love for you and your wise decision. You all don’t get praise often enough, but for this you deserve sainthood.
Oh yes. Yes you do.
Flying with the kids is always an adventure. A well choreographed dance. And when it’s just me, the ballet turns into tap and I am the MASTER. This last adventure with the kids was just short of peaceful. They each had their own backpack, which they were able to carry with nary a complaint.
Suh-weet!
On top of that, I packed nothing but a small bag containing only my wallet, my sunglasses and my ipad. That was it. No sippy cups. No diapers. No snacks. No toys. It was so easy and my bag was so light that I spent half my time looking around in panic, sure I’d left something behind.
Turned out it was just my sanity, but I’ve long since been able to find that so no worries.
Once settled on the plane, things got a little more interesting. There were four of us travelling, but only three seats to a row and everyone wants the window seat. After the heat of my flaming dagger eyes calmed everyone down, we came to the not so convenient decision of me and the boys sitting in one aisle and Tia sitting next to the window in front of us. I watched as person after person looked at her and passed on by until finally a mercifully sweet young couple braved sitting next to the pig-tailed cherub with her nose pressed to the window.
I felt I owed them money about midway through the flight as they helped her retrieve item after item from her backpack wedged beneathe the seat. And of course, there was the dreaded, “Mom, I need to go to the westwoom,” immediately after take off.
My daughter makes it her mission in life to need to pee at the most inconvenient moment possible. Last time, her immediate need resulted in all four of us cramming into a bathroom together.
We like adventure.
When it became apparent that Tia was in imminent danger of springing a leak, we made a beline for the bathroom at the back of the plane.
“The seat belt sign is still on,” the stewardess said gently as we hustled back. She glanced down at Tia who was dancing, her eyes clearly conveying desperation. “Oh,” she smiled. “I see,” and she gestured us on by. Bless those who understand five year olds with overactive bladders!
We made it to the bathroom and I yanked open the door and that’s when time stopped for a moment too long. Yelping, I slammed the door shut again, the vision of his wide, dimpled backside forever seared into my brain.
Why?! Why the unlocked door?! And why the pants around the ankles?! Why?!
Maybe she didn’t see, I thought, slowly looking down at my daughter who had finally stopped squirming. Her eyes were wide, much like my own.
“Dat. Was. Gwoss,” she said quietly, looking up at me.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing as I rushed her to the front of the plane, because Lord knows I didn’t want her seeing that man’s face so she could point him out to her brothers and everyone on the plane.
Let this be a public service announcement to you all: LOCK THE DOOR WHEN YOU USE THE AIRPLANE BATHROOM!
I fully expected to hear of “Air Butt” the rest of the trip, but somehow, mercifully, she never brought it up. Maybe she found it to be as disturbing (or more so…it was pretty much at her eye level) as I did. Maybe she just forgot. I certainly don’t plan to ever mention it to her again.
Sadly, the unfortunate incident only added to my alreadyunreasonable fear of airplane bathrooms. Forget being sucked out – now every time I enter a bathroom I’ll have that image in my mind.
Neat.
This post comes to you with a sheepish, yet polite, request for help. I hate talkin’ shop, but wanted to just toss a few little things out there. Don’t worry, though. This post won’t be all dry. I’ve got a gem of a story to tell you at the end.
It’s my dangling carrot.
So here’s the deal, friends. I stink at self-promotion. It makes me wildly uncomfortable. As I told someone recently, it makes me feel a bit like the girl standing on top of a table in a crowded room and screaming LOOK AT ME!! And I’ve never been much of a table top kind of girl.
Ahem.
But, my goal in the next few months is to beef up the readership and participation on my blog. And to do that, I need your help. If you read something on here that you like, would you mind forwarding it on? You can hit the little Facebook button at the bottom of the page, or if you’re the Tweetin’ kind, you can give a little Tweet.
You know…if you want.
Also, well I don’t talk about it much and, to be quite honest, I don’t utilize it much, but I DO have a Minivans Are Hot Facebook page that you can like by clicking riiiiiiight…here. You don’t have to drive a minivan to like the Facebook page, but I will warn you that should you choose to follow the blog AND the Facebook page, you will likely start to feel the pull of the minivan.
Because minivans are bringing sexy back.
Huh?
Whatever.
If you do read something you like and have a second or two to respond, well, I’ll confess – I’m a bit of a comment whore. I promise I will respond to you…or you can respond to one another. I like community so let’s build a community of minivan lovin’ (or hatin’ – you know who you are) women…and men, too. I know you guys are reading.
Finally in the manner of business, I would like to ask if there’s anything you guys would like me to specifically write about. Is there are particular topic you like better? Is there something you’d like me to avoid discussing (the frequency of my childrens bowel movements? DONE! – Look how accommodating I am)?
Seriously – let me know.
Now, on to that carrot:
The Scene:
A beautiful, sunny Florida afternoon. The kids are playing outside while I enjoy a few quiet moments alone to do whatever I want – which means I’m cleaning the kitchen…again. The windows are open and a beautiful, cool fall breeze is drifting in. Nothing can break the perfection of this moment. Nothing, that is, until I hear a scream that rattles the glass throughout the house.
The back door flings open aaaaaaaaand CUE DIALOGUE!
“Mooooooooommmmm!!!” Tia shrieks, running into the house all sweaty and red-faced. Sloan comes running after her with a tormentuous (this is my blog – if I say that’s a word…it’s a word) grin on his face.
“What in the world?” I say as she throws her arms around my waist and cries. “What’s going on?”
“Sloan stole my gun!” She cried. Sloan throws his hands up in mock innocence. “What’d I do?” he yells.
“What gun, Tia?” I ask, detaching her from my leg.
“My pwetend gun! I was fightin’ the bad guys with it and Sloan took it and now the bad guys are gonna kill me!”
Pause.
Uuuuummm.
“Tia, if it’s a pretend gun, can’t you just get another one?” I try my best to say this without rolling my eyes.
“Nope, she can’t,” Sloan says with a smirk. “Because I destroyed all the guns in the imaginary gun shop.”
“Yeah!” Tia cries again. “And he ate the pie I made for Justin Bieber who was gonna come over for dinner at my pwetend house! I don’t LIKE Sloan.” She stomps her foot and runs to her room, slamming her door.
“Whatever!” Sloan yells in return, huffing to his room.
Landon walks in at this moment and strolls past me with string and a crowbar tucked under his arms.
And this folks is why I am slowly but surely losing. my. mind.
The End.
We laid the Bible on the table and she sat silent for a moment, the weight of God’s Word sinking deep.
“God thinks I’m important?” she asked.
We just finished reading from Genesis when Abraham, obeying God’s command, took Isaac to the mountain and lay him on an altar. He raised the knife high, willing to sacrifice his son yet heartbroken to do it.
“Abraham, Stop!”
A lamb.
A thicket and an altar of thanksgiving.
A promise kept.
To me, it was just another story. But the message she got?
The words whispered to her soul?
God thought Isaac important. So important, he was to be spared.
God thinks her important.
So important, she was to be spared.
A Sacrificial Lamb sent to take her place.
“I think I’m ready,” she said, very matter of fact. No doubt, the voice did not waver.
And later that day, nestled on the bed between us…she answered the knock.
Confident.
Joyful.
Beautiful.
She understood. The acceptance holds weight.
Truth.
The dirt…
Made clean.
Daughter.
A Princess.
And when the prayers were finished, she smiled wide.
“Heaven’s having a party for me now, right?” she asked with a grin.
And they are. I imagine it to be a grand feast with birthday cake, Nutella (naturally) and M&M’s – all her favorites.
We had our own party.
At a restaurant on the beach we celebrated over chicken fingers and shrimp.
An altar of thanksgiving.
As we wrapped up and the low lying clouds began to shine with the rays of the sun breaking through their surface, she turned to me. All eyes. Big and bright.
Crystal Blue.
Redemption.
“Mom, is my heaven party over now?” she asked.
“No, baby. They’ll be celebrating you for all eternity.”
“Yet to those who received Him, to those who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God.” John 1:12
*A profession of faith in Christ is really important to us and knowing our children have come to that point brings us to our knees. If you are unsure as to why that’s important to us or you have any questions about why we believe what we believe, please feel free to email me. I would love to chat with you. kellistuart00 (at) hotmail (dot) com.
An iron will combined with pure determination make her beauty a little tougher to penetrate. Life ebbs and flows under her watchful eye and she pours forth emotion only when unaware that anyone is watching. Fierce love and sheer delight dance in her eyes, though, and it’s here that her tough exterior shows weakness. The best kind of weakness.
Compassion.
Her white blonde strands dance in the wind and her baby blues swim with concern. Her brother has just been punctured by a catfish – his first fishing wound. As blood seeps and he cries, she makes her move unaware of my observance. She slips an arm around his shoulder and squeezes tight. Concern. Fear. Pain.
She feels it all.
She feels my watchful eye and turns to look at me. I nod, showing as little emotion as I can and for a moment, I see her compassion falter. But a maturity is setting in – one that hasn’t been there before. She is five and a half now. She reminds us every day.
What I see is more than an age, though. It’s God. It’s a given nature settling in, begging to be watered and fed. She is seeking and questioning. Who is God? What is Grace? What did Jesus do for me? She asks and I answer. Then we wait.
“I want to know Jesus,” she says from the backseat. “But I’m not ready yet.” And that is okay. We will let her wait and question and seek, because the time is coming when faith will call and she will make it hers. But it will be in the time that feels right to her. She would have it no other way.
I would have it no other way.
He would have it no other way.
Her younger brother cries. In a fit of laughter he took the corner too fast and head met wall with force. He wails and I look down. Her hand on his ankle and tears in her eyes. She looks entirely surprised by this reaction. Empathy has never been her first reaction. But lately…she’s changing.
“I don’t know why I’m cwying,” she says, her eyes bright.
Compassion.
I say the word to her. Over and over we discuss it. Compassion. I tell her every day now. “You are compassionate. You care. And that’s a good thing.” She needs to know. Because by nature, her independence prefers distance. She likes control and predictability. But compassion…it is unpredictable. You don’t know when it will strike and the tears will flow. Compassion requires surrender.
Late in the evening as a storm meanders off in the distance and the clouds paint the sky in a Master Tapestry of shape and color, she and I walk hand in hand. “Do you want to call her?” I ask. She has been talking about her friend Noelle for several days. I hear the ache in her voice. The tender age of five has not tempered her longing for companionship. She misses her friend.
“No,” she says and shakes her head hard. This is her sign. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to process. The tough exterior is up. We return to the condo and I watch her move.
“Tia. Why don’t you want to call Noelle?” I ask, when the bustling movement of masculinity dashes to another room and we two are left alone. She looks at the floor, then at me. Again her eyes are full and bright and sad. She shrugs. She won’t talk because the emotion threatens and wavers and her first reaction is to fight for control.
“Are you afraid that hearing her voice will make you sad?” I ask. And she crumbles. We lay on the bed and weep together. Me for her…and for myself. I miss them too. The friends and loved ones. I miss them. And so does she. She’s only five, but also…she is five.
We spend some time talking about our friends. We remember all the fun we had with them and we rejoice in the blessing of dear, sweet friendships. Then we pray. She clutches to my chest, her hot tears dripping off her nose and together we plead for new friendships to fill the void. For me.
For her.
And one more time before the lights go out we discuss compassion. I stroke her silky soft hair and tell her again. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to love. She possesses all of these emotions in full but letting them out is the trick. It’s the magic.
It’s what makes her so unique and wonderful.
She’s walked around the house whimpering and clutching her ear. She hasn’t slept a full night in four days nor has she eaten much of anything.
This is the child who never says no to sleep and food. Ever.
More than once when she was younger, she would vomit in the middle of the night and go right back to sleep in it and we wouldn’t know she was sick until the next morning when the house smelled like death. Hope you’re not reading this while drinking your coffee.
So we knew something was wrong. The Walgreen’s Walk In clinic nurse lady said Swimmer’s Ear. It was a best guess since she couldn’t see past the impacted wax in Tia’s teeny tiny ear canals. So off we went with drops and an Icee, because Tia didn’t scream bloody murder when the nurse lady looked in her ears.
But…
She spiked a fever and her ear hurt so bad she couldn’t even eat a Wendy’s Frosty for lunch. This was bad. So we made a phone call to a local ENT and I bribed her a second time in three days.
“Be brave and I’ll get you a little treat,” I promised. Because in the past it’s taken me and two nurses to hold her down for an ear exam. Bribery is my only defense.
“That is a nasty looking little ear,” the doctor said as he peeked inside. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she took big deep breaths to keep herself calm. “Most adults wouldn’t be able to function under the type of pain she is probably experiencing.”
Her ear canal has swollen shut, a negative reaction to the medicated drops. Does she have an inner ear infection in addition to the outer ear infection? No one can say because she has so much wax in her ears and it’s packed in tight like cement.
“I’m surprised she can hear anything at all,” he said. I told him we repeat things a lot.
So Friday morning, we are headed into a local surgery center to have her sedated and have her ears roto-rooter’ed (Yes, that’s a word…it’s a verb). From there we will better be able to determine exactly what’s going on inside her ears and hopefully relieve her of this nasty, ugly pain.
Until then, it’s lots of Tylenol and hugs and probably a few more sleepless nights. The little radiator climbs in bed with us around 1:30 when her current dose of medication wears off and sleeps on top of me the rest of the night. The good news is that last night, for the first time in several days, she hasn’t cried throughout the night. And she’s still asleep this morning.
Probably because it’s raining and dark outside.
Look at that, I somehow managed to tie that random title into this post after all. Go me…
How is your week going?
I am going to post some pictures, but before I do, I feel compelled to offer this warning:
The photos you are about to view contain images of extreme cuteness. View with caution, particularly if you are sensitive to happiness, small children and unabashed joy. These images should not be viewed by the faint of heart or anyone with an aversion to the following items: babies, puppies, rainbows, sunshine or happiness as they will not be emotionally equipped to handle the cute. If you suffer from hard heartedness, view with caution and with full awareness that you may be forced to smile. Proceed carefully and it is advisable to let out a hearty “Aaaawww” while viewing to prevent your heart from exploding.
Phew. Now that I got that disclaimer out of the way, you’re free to look. Does anything scream childhood more than this? Tell me. Anything at all?
Aaaaaawwww…
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