There is a child who lives with us who likes to go to the Emergency Room.
Her eyes are as warm as hot chocolate and her smile is easy. Her hair color can’t decide on its true path–these days it’s a honey brown. I love her like you love your own children, if you have them.
This isn’t a Mommy Blog and I don’t post my children’s names on the Interwebs. For purposes of clarity, we’ll call her Co-Pay.
Saturday, Co-Pay shoved a green vintage button up her small, perfectly formed nose. That nose is located a little south of the part of her brow which is healing nicely after the removal of some recent stitches from a previous incident.
I tend to have the “flight” part of the flight or fight reaction, so in times of buttons and noses, I am of very little use. As attempts to remove the button failed (headlamp, tweezer, nasal bulb), I started pacing and feeling like I wanted to throw up. (I mean, I’m the type of mom who has asked her oldest daughter not to throw up because Mommy really, really doesn’t like throw up. And then, said daughter, who can be really sweet, actually did throw up but held it in her hands so I wouldn’t have to clean up. This makes me ashamed in a I should-really-be-ashamed type of way.)
My husband started Googling ways to remove foreign objects from the nose and came upon this brilliant solution that eventually worked (an adult who is not sick places his or her mouth over the child’s mouth and gives a very gentle puff of air while holding shut the unobstructed nostril.) The button was dislodged enough by this method so that the tweezer was effective.
As my husband held the vintage button triumphantly, my eldest daughter said, “Oh, I gave her that!” This is how life goes.
My wonderful friend LeAnn gave me the best advice once about children once. She said that God had made them who they are, and he certainly has plans for them. I can’t remember if this was before or after my family went on vacation and Co-Pay got her head stuck in the condo balcony railing within five minutes of our arrival.
As I type this, Co-Pay sleeps under her crib tent, which is exactly what it sounds like. The white dome covers the place where other babies like to sleep but she has deemed optional. Since she climbed out of her crib months ago, this is the only way our household can get sleep.
Before I had children, I was the best parent around. I am serious—I was very, very good. And then, they moved in. I am now learning daily—sometimes hourly—to lift these girls up to God and ask for forgiveness, my daily bread, protection, guidance, Google. You name it, I’ve prayed it. But somewhere, past the stitches, past the booger buttons, I am also praying for my children’s faith to be the sweet fabric of their lives.
That’s me—the one running after my toddler who’s laughing with her head thrown back. And that’s her, pumping her legs into the unknown and falling headlong into whatever meets her there.