Can we get a pre-op room? "I'm Here." And thank goodness for empty dessert plates.

Ever have those days (years?) when you wonder if you should hang up the parenting towel and simply run away? When you worry you are maybe not cut out for this mom gig?

After a several month war with a stubborn eye cyst (we did not win), our eye surgeon was finally able to get our 2nd grader scheduled for eye surgery just in time to beat our year-end insurance expiration date. Thanks to our friendly scheduler, Nolenda, we were all set for surgery on Thursday morning with an early bird arrival time of 6:30am. And what bonus news to learn that DH (Dear Husband) would be missing the surgery due to a business meeting requiring his presence in a far-away state, thereby avoiding the surgery excitement entirely. In preparation for our early surgery, rides were all lined up for the big kids, as well as the little one, to and from their respective schools (all three schools); lunches and backpacks were packed and things seemed to be in humming order. Until they weren't.

Nolenda and the surgeon changed plans on us (how dare they!) at the ninth hour. They moved our carefully planned surgery from Thursday to Friday. (DO THEY UNDERSTAND THAT MOVING OUR SURGERY DAY DISRUPTS CAREFULLY ORCHESTRATED ARRANGEMENTS FOR THREE DIFFERENT CHILDREN IN THREE DIFFERENT SCHOOLS ON THREE DIFFERENT SCHEDULES)? But no problem, Nolenda, we will be there with bells on! See you not Thursday, but Friday! No problem, really!

Surgery day arrives and we are all a little stressed (more so than is usual which means our shoulder blades are up to our ears with veins pulsating). The two big kids complain of severe nausea. I send them to school anyway because I no longer have backup plans due to Nolenda's surgery re-arranging at the final hour. Come to think of it, I am feeling nauseous, too. Maybe we should all stay home together. The two youngest kids and I rush madly out the door in an effort to make our early bird special 6:30am check-in time, with the son who is having eye surgery spitting out the cookie he just gobbled as his older brother astutely reminds him, "You know you're not supposed to eat anything after 12 midnight last night, right?" Thank goodness for brothers who thoroughly read pre-op instructions.

My 2nd grade son-of-few-words displays nerves-of-steel as we enter Children's Hospital and walk through the waiting room doors. We're greeted with countless toddlers in footed pjs zooming about the crowded lobby, pushing and pulling ride-on toys, honking, buzzing, and beeping like nobody's business. My 3-year old is in heaven; my 2nd grader is annoyed and ready to blow this popsicle stand before we even sit down. This loud throng is not what we had expected pre-op - especially not at 6:30 in the morning. I could tell his courage was wavering and mine was starting to waiver, too. Taking him in to that operating room was going to be harder than I had imagined. Especially without his dad by my side.

We both breathed relief when, after two hours of waiting room waiting and waiting and waiting, we heard his name called for vitals. So long footed pajama people!

Temperature taken. Check. Heart rate taken. Check. Blood pressure taken. Check. Weight taken. Check. Hospital gown received. Check. And then a crushing blow: "I'm sorry, but we don't have a pre-op room available for you right now. You'll have to go back to the waiting room."

And that was all it took to break my nerves-of-steel son.

His lips trembled. His chest quivered. And then the sobs. Tears raged. My strong boy could hold the fear in no longer. It was all too much. And then I broke. These darn sicknesses - some, thankfully, treatable like my son's - some terminal and can't be cut away or treated or cured or fixed.

And now the tears were rolling down my cheeks, too. I was hurting that my son had to be put to sleep and cut open, even if it was just his eye, and even if he would be fine afterward, but I was also hurting for those parents whose children would not be fine - or worse, would not return after surgery. And I know they're out there - some may be reading this post right now.

That's when our little 3-year old reached her sweet little hands up to her big brother's hands, held them, looked at him, and said two of the most powerful words I had heard that entire day: "I'm here." And then she handed him her beloved teddy bear and scurried away.

And let me just pause with that. "I'm here." Those aren't the words this momma would have said (or did say) to her hurting son. Nope. I'm not that wise. She didn't say what I would have said .... things like, "It's okay." (it wasn't). She didn't say, "Don't cry." (He needed to cry). She didn't say, "Be strong." (He was being as strong as he could). Instead, she said, simply: "I'm here." She made it okay for him to feel his fear and she gave him the space to feel it. Such wiseness from a 3-year old. (Incidentally, I had no idea how much she was learning at her preschool)!

And with our big tears and those 3-year old hands, the power of her two words and the love offering of her teddy bear, our nurse whisked herself away. We waited. My son moved over to my lap. We sat in silence. It was sweet. It was sad. I kept my mind in check, but there were moments where it did race: "What if something goes terribly wrong? What if he isn't able to see after the surgery? Worse yet, what if he doesn't wake up?"

And then fate smiled on us. (Or maybe it was all the tears causing the nurse to think we were basket cases). Because a pre-op room magically opened up.

I wish I could say the day ended marvelously. (My son's eye surgery turned out fine and for that we are blessed and so grateful. The rest of the day, however? - not so much). Turn's out the surgeon was running late. Really late. And I was scheduled for a book signing that afternoon. I missed it by several hours. So much for being a master juggler. (I'm sorry, Willamena. And how on earth do all you working moms do the juggling day in and day out every single day?).

Racing straight from the operating table to our next commitment (not even joking here) we slid into the parking lot of my oldest daughter's talent show in the nick of time. (Yes, the talent show also just happened to be on the eve of our Friday's re-scheduled eye surgery - thank you again, Nolenda for moving us to the Friday date, I reiterate how convenient today has been). We were hoping the nauseous state of the two biggest kids had subsided from our earlier check-in at 6:30am. Indeed both were feeling better. Check!

I was sensing our lives were headed for an upswing as the talent show opened with a free (free!) dessert bar. Unable to choose between Spritz, Chocolate Blitz, and Frosted Sugar, I sampled 5 cookies (okay 6 but they were small) prior to the start of the show. Why am I telling you this tidbit? Hold on. It's important.

With a frosted cookie (or 5) in hand, I'm truly believing things are looking up and that I just may make this mothering gig after all. I mean ...

*We made it through eye surgery with my 3-year old in tow, who taught me something profound while being quite sweet to her big brother when he needed it most. Check!

*My son made it through surgery with a successful outcome and was able to attend his sister's talent show. Check!

*Both of the big kids made it through the school day without vomiting. Can we say WINNING?!

*Oh, and best of all? My husband, their father, made it home in time to sit with us at the talent show! Can we say DOUBLE WINNING?!

So, just as I was maybe allowing myself to kind of sort of maybe believe all might be okay with this mothering job and I may not need to resign after all, I hear a slight gag from my 3-year old who happens to be sitting on my lap. And then all heck breaks loose and I realize it is actually not a slight gag at all, but rather a large gag and it is coming up all over her lovely pink corduroy dress and is also now on me and being the quick thinker I am because, after all, I am a MOM, I instinctively reach for the dessert plate under my chair (which is EMPTY because I ATE all 6 cookies), masterfully place the small plate beneath my 3-year old's mouth and use it in lieu of a barf bag as she proceeds to throw up all the way to the restroom (which is a long walk away) while we navigate our way through the crowded maze of tables filled with parents as she projectile vomits on the beloved dessert plate. NO.LONGER.WINNING.

Oh and super bonus? Guess who is about to go on stage simultaneous to all of the plate action/walking-while-gagging-and-throwing up? Of course! My daughter!!!!!!!!!!! I GIVE UP!!!!!! How can this job not pay any money, people???!!!!!! AND WHY IS THIS DESSERT PLATE SO INSANELY SMALL!!!!!!

Now, if only my 3-year old wasn't vomiting and could hold my hand and say two words: "I'm here."

Thanks for reading.

Love,

Lauri

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