My most dramatic child, my baby, just had surgery to remove her wisdom teeth this week.
We all knew it was about to be a whole thing.
We talked about it in low tones, and looked to be sure she wasn’t listening before we whispered about it in the hallway.
“I KNOW. Don’t you think I realize how it’s going to be?”
I considered stocking the emergency kits, and learning how to signal passing planes should things turn extra bleak. We all walked on eggshells, making sure not to mention so much as the words “wisdom” or “teeth.”
For most things this child is strong, and brave,
but when it comes to all things medical, or sickness related, I know that I am most likely about to face a four-alarm fire for roughly the next week.
If she says she has a headache, clear your calendar.
Sore throat? Your actual JOB now is making hot tea.
If she gets so much as a stuffy nose there are tears and whining over how much she HATES not being able to breathe.
The cats usually scatter.
You know animals: They can sense things.
You cannot mention throwing up. Ever.
Ever. EVER.
The damage control I have to do after anyone does takes the skill of a certified clinical therapist, or a hostage negotiator. I am surprised I don’t have a headset and a walkie talkie.
Any time any of the other girls seem like they’re about to maybe mention it, I shoot them a look that makes Medusa seem anemic.
I actually think this daughter would love it if she had four nurses fanning and soothing her forehead with washcloths at all moments of any sick day.
*hand to forehead*
Could you carry her to the bathroom? She hasn’t eaten much today.
She wants epsom salt baths run,
and candles lit,
and for someone to PLEASE grab the lotion, warm it in their hands, and then massage her feet!
Her sisters roll their eyes and tell me it’s my fault.
“It’s SO OBVIOUS she’s the youngest,” my oldest says, just before relaying some equally dramatic story about how we supposedly left her to care for herself among the wolves in the pouring rain or something.
“Just look at her,” she’ll say.
(A quick glance over will inevitably reveal her propped on satin pillows, with her hair freshly braided, surrounded by all her favorite snacks, and playing her video games)
They tell me I need to toughen her up, but, you know what?
I’ll have them know I didn’t make up the rules for how you treat the baby.
On the night before her procedure, preparing to march towards my own potential Death by Oral Surgery, the family and I started a pool to guess which would end up being worse:
Dad having a Man Cold, or this next Wisdom Teeth Recovery Week.
All our money was on this week.
In my mind, I pictured myself jolting out of a dead sleep to three soft claps, or the ringing of a tiny bell.
The only shred of joy I held onto was in the hopes that maybe this time,
maybe just ONCE I could be one of those moms that records an epic video of their child coming out of anesthesia after surgery.
Surely I’d get ONE.
The other three had been pretty disappointing with their requests for Starbucks, and other boring things. (Kind of a waste of that anesthesia fee, if you ask me)
When the doctor came and got me afterwards to lead me to the recovery room,
you’d better believe I had my camera ready. At the very least it could be used like a dash-cam to protect myself for whatever was about to be unleashed.
What I got this time, however, was pure gold, as the child obsessed with facts slurred with her wall-eyes and absolutely demanded I quiz her on Eastern Asian geography immediately.
Without even being able to hold her head up, she announced she could name all the countries there.
I smiled a half smile and hit record on my phone.
This was it! FINALLY!
Only, she did.
She did name them perfectly.
Still feeling the effects of anesthesia, my 13 year old named countries I’d never even heard of, proving herself way smarter than me.
With gauze in her mouth she attempted to enunciate “East Timor.”
I didn’t tell her she didn’t have to enunciate, because I wouldn’t have known the difference since I’d never heard of it before.
Those must have been, like, the wisest of teeth.
Remarkably, she is recovering well, and I haven’t heard even one bell.
She hasn’t cried like we thought she would, or called us all “peasants,” or thrown anything.
Having to not only think of what to make for dinner every night (which I already hated) but also which things are blendable has pretty much been the only bad thing.
No emergency crews have been called in.
There haven’t been shock blankets needed, or news crews showing up to do their interviews.
To hear her surprising report, too many taunting Taco Bell videos showing up on her For You Page when all she can have are smoothies and soup, and “looking like when a dog eats a bee” have been the only real reasons she’s even complained, so,
circling back to the contest we all wondered about,
we now have an answer:
Much to our surprise –
Dad Having a Man Cold
still holds the title in this family for the worst-ever thing.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
