Her speech therapist and I had been in the throes of trying to find the perfect combination of formula thickness and delivery to allow her to bottle feed while minimizing her risk of aspiration. She had already yarfed once that morning, and was doing her best to refuse any more than two ounces at a time. I was beginning to wonder if my little fat fat's nummy leg rolls were going to disappear forever.
(The storyteller in me will put it that way, but I want to acknowledge that it is acutely terrifying and discouraging when your infant refuses to eat.)
I could feel a lump in my throat begin to form, a terribly irritating pearl of emotion that swelled and swelled until the therapist left the room and I was assured of privacy by click of the door handle behind us. Then I finally did what I end up doing at least once every time we've come to this hospital. I broke down, hard. Only this time was different, as I couldn't sneak off to a private corner to do it. The overwhelming wave of frustration smashed into me, carrying away with it the hope I had for a timely resolution to this frightening episode.
(Know that in revealing this vulnerable moment, it's not my intention to elicit sympathy by describing my brokenness. As a matter of fact, don't even worry about offering words of encouragement. These moments just happen in parenthood, and I'm capable of accepting that.
Crying was a physically and emotionally warranted cleansing process that just needed to take place, and sometimes it takes me weeks, months, even years to cry about things that deserve my tears.
I'm simply writing about this to frame the beauty of what happened next.)
As I sat in our nursing rocker pressing Ava to my chest with one rigid hand and covering my face from betraying my grief with the other, I could feel my baby melt to my side, seemingly unaware of how much her struggles were frightening me. I sobbed and shook, gripping her tighter and tighter. Realizing how physical this emotional storm was threatening to become, I went to pull her away from me and lay her in her crib. Then she looked up at me with concerned eyes and stuck her bottom lip out. Her eyebrows hit her hairline, and then she burst into enormous crocodile tears!
I was flabbergasted. Maybe I'd accidentally pulled on her feeding tube or pinched her fingers against the chair, I reasoned. I cleaned my act up just long enough to get her to calm down, then the unbearable weight of frustrstion hit me a second time and I went bananas all over again.
My gaze fell back upon her sweet face, and as soon as our eyes met, she did it again!
She first made this face:
..which graduated to this one:
...and with that, I was certain: Her heart was completely broken because she recognized that mine was.
I straightened up pretty quickly after that. As soon as I could manage a phony smile, she instantly
calmed down and broke into her trademark grin. You know the one -- her cherub cheeks round out
while her mouth gasps wide with uncontainable joy. I'd sell everything I've ever owned if I could
guarantee she would smile at me just that way for the rest of my life.
Before that moment, I didn't think that she was aware enough to react to much of anything other than what happened directly to her. Boy howdy, was I wrong.
Although I wouldn't want her as my child to bear the burden of my emotional heaviness, a part of me is glad she was able to see me for where I was at that moment. When she responded as she did, it drove home the fact that it's not only my job to teach her right from wrong. I have a responsibility to model what it is to handle strong emotions in a healthy manner. Even if that means crying and not looking like a grow up for a moment. Or allowing the warmth of unconditinal love to lift you out of a looming depression by allowing yourself to smile through your tears.
God was so merciful to me when he gave us this child, exactly the way she is. Everything about her answers my shortfalls with grace.
I love you, monkey-moo.
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