When I look at our gross kitchen floor with bits of food that have been there for several days, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When I put Sprout to bed at 8:45 PM for the third night in a row, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When I look at the baskets of unfolded laundry, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When I think about all of the friends I haven’t emailed in months, years, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When I look at all of the unchecked items on my to-do list, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When the lawn is way too long and the garden is an overgrown mess, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When the dishes aren’t washed at 11:30 at night, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
When I only remember my mom’s birthday because of Facebook, I feel like I’ve failed as an adult.
My son has the most beautiful blue eyes in the world. But they aren’t quite flawless. In fact, they’re uneven; his pupils dilate to different sizes. I never noticed it until my husband pointed it out, but from then on it was obvious. While I still think they’re gorgeous, they caused one of the most stressful periods of my life as a mom.
Chris noticed the difference in Sprout’s eyes when he was about three months old. We were eating at a diner booth lit by an old-fashioned lamp. At first, we thought it was a trick of the light. Nonetheless, we agreed we should bring him to the doctor – just in case. Uneven pupils can indicate a concussion, right?
The call to the nurse the next morning didn’t assuage our fears. They encouraged us to come in for an appointment right away. Clearly, this wasn’t a common issue. When we got to the pediatrician, he said that yes, Sprout’s eyes were uneven. With a look of concern on his normally optimistic face, the doctor recommended making an appointment immediately with a pediatric ophthalmologist.
Chris and Sprout went to the specialist without me. I desperately wanted to go, but I couldn’t take time off right after returning from maternity leave. To dilate Sprout’s pupils, the doctor administered eye drops. If both pupils were the same size after the eye drops, there was no underlying problem. But if they were still different, he would need “more tests.” A dreaded phrase. His pupils still were off by several millimeters. We were off to another specialist.
The next stop was the Children’s National Medical Center in downtown Washington, D.C. After giving Sprout even stronger eye drops derived from the main component of cocaine, the specialist found his pupils were still different sizes.
On one hand, he said that 85 percent of kids with this result are fine. They just have an inborn quirk. But the other 15 percent? They have a brain tumor or something else dreadful pressing on the nerve leading to the eye. 85% usually isn’t bad odds. But any number feels like bad odds when you’re talking about your infant possibly having a brain tumor.
To find out for certain, Sprout would have to have an MRI. Because most MRIs require patients be perfectly still, they’re difficult for adults to do. They’re impossible for infants – unless you put them under anesthesia.
Even with national experts caring for him, the thought of anyone putting my baby under made me catch my breath. Not to mention the horrible possibilities of the potential MRI results.
All of it seemed horribly predestined. My pregnancy and his early babyhood had gone easily compared to the horror stories of people I knew. I felt like this was the other shoe dropping.
The earliest appointment was available in a month. For the first few weeks, I was fine; I simply refused to think about it. Every time the thought of the appointment wandered into my mind, I shoved it out.
But then, the Children’s National Medical Center started an ad campaign at the subway stop I walked through every day. My baby’s upcoming test struck me square in the face every morning. I flinched each time, averting my eyes. The ads were supposed to be comforting, but all I could think was, “He could be one of those kids. My baby could have cancer.”
This thought pounded through my mind the day of the appointment.
As we paced through the winding hallway from the security desk to the check-in to the MRI waiting area, I saw so many sick children. Children with scars on their heads, children in wheelchairs, children with bandages. And those were only the outward signs. The horror that raged through their little bodies was left up to the imagination.
I couldn’t help but think of Sprout here for his second, third, fourth, seemingly infinite treatment. As I looked at the parents, I saw a future version of myself. I’ve been in situations that others would find terrifying, but that hospital is the scariest place I’ve ever been.
In the waiting room, I bounced Sprout. I couldn’t stay still. Time slowed in a way that it hadn’t since I had been in labor. When they finally called us, the staff were calm and smiling without being excessively so. The nurse complemented us on using cloth diapers, saying how rarely she saw them. The anesthesiologist explained that they usually don’t allow parents to stay when they put the babies under.
We must have hid our anxiety well; they called us in a few minutes later. Sprout was restrained with the smallest Velcro straps. I held his tiny hand as they put the mask on. He squirmed and then fell still.
Chris and I waited in the cafeteria. We held food and hot tea in our shaking hands. We shifted back and forth in the sculpted plastic and metal seats. We talked about the hospital, about politics, about everything but the answer to “What if?”
When they called us back, Sprout was lying on a hospital bed. He was so still that I could hardly tell if he was breathing or not. I ached to hug him, but we had to wait for him to come out from under the anesthesia. I hadn’t fed him for hours, so my breasts were sore. As he started to stir, I started to breathe again. I picked him up and cradled him.
The days waiting for the results dragged on and on. After a few days, the doctor called Chris directly, informing him that the MRI was clear. I was frustrated to hear the news second-hand – it would have felt more concrete to hear it straight from the doctor. Relief washed over me anyway.
We had our follow-up appointment and final report a few weeks ago. This time, the hospital wasn’t so threatening – it offered a potential confirmation of health, not illness. Everything checked out normally. The doctor said he was relieved that nothing had changed. In the report, he said Sprout is a “a delightful young man,” which I thought was an amusing way to describe a nine-month0old.
Now, I look into Sprout’s blue eyes and see an inquisitive baby looking back at me. But behind that beauty, there’s a lurking fear, a reminder of what might have been. Fortunately, I also know that the fear is no match for our love for him. I know even if he was sick, he and his eyes would still be beautiful. Because beauty and love always win out over fear.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the only struggle our family’s had. I talk about the complications with my second pregnancy over at the Good Mother Project. For hearing more about the joys and the struggles of our experiences as parents, be sure to follow us on Facebook.
Yes, you’re a nerd if you know what these are for.
Two years ago, I managed the difficult task of becoming an even bigger a nerd then I already was: I started tabletop role-playing. But my group’s campaigns aren’t focused on the battles and die rolling. Instead, they’re improvisational storytelling sessions. You create and dwell in a character, just as you would if you were writing a fictional story. Unlike writing, role playing requires you to be clever on your feet (even if your character isn’t!). So far, I’ve played a young innocent woman running away from court for a life of adventure (Pathfinder) and a socially blunt Nordic blacksmith who has been appointed as a trade guild representative (7th Sea). Because neither of these reflect a lick of my real-life experience it’s forced me to inhabit perspectives very different from my own. Developing this keen empathy for my fictional characters has sharpened my skills for relating to real people, including my son. In fact, creating a character has been good preparation for adopting to my new role as a parent.
To develop a character, you construct a whole person, with their own background and voice. You need consider what she would want in any given situation and respond accordingly. It can be seriously challenging.
But that process was easy compared to my mental and emotional transition to the role of “mommy.” Instead of coming up with a fictional identity, I faced a whole new facet of my own. Rather than abilities like climbing I could write on a sheet, I suddenly had to learn a list of real skills, from diapering to breastfeeding. My own needs and wants hit me in a barrage of emotion, causing reactions that my old self would have never predicted. I cry at beer commercials! Sometimes I felt like a character in someone else’s life, playing an unfamiliar role.
I ended up handling both challenges with largely the same approach – fake it ’till you make it. I used to hate this idea, feeling that if you can’t do something well that “pretending” was fraudulent. But, I realized there’s simply no other choice. You can’t become familiar with a character until you play them for a while. No one knows what it’s like to be a parent until it happens. At first, it’s totally foreign. But by acting like a “good parent” even when you don’t feel like one, you eventually become one. C.S. Lewis has a good analogy in Mere Christianity, talking the process of becoming a “good Christian.” He explains that we will never reach Jesus’s level of love, but we can “put on his clothes” and practice. Just like little children walking around in their parents’ shoes, we too will grow into the people we need to be.
Courtesy of Catherine Bowers and Cafepress
In addition to helping me take on my new role, gaming has helped me see the world a little more through the eyes of my infant. If he had a character sheet, it would read strength 2, dexterity 1, intelligence 5 (current level of knowledge, not IQ), and charisma 18. While he’s since leveled up in forward locomotion and object manipulation, crying was his sole skill when he was born. Contemplating how much he had to learn – even eating and pooping! – helped me comprehend how overwhelming the world must be. Seeing the world from his perspective has reinforced my patience, even at 2 AM in the morning.
While many people make fun of role players for living in a fantasy world, it’s actually helped me be a better parent in the real one.