I’ve been bonding with my eight-year-old son lately, and loving every second. First he had surgery last week, a fairly minor one, but still a surgery; forced to walk into a giant room and lay down on a table and wait while someone made him breathe gas that put him to sleep. He could only have one parent with him to do this, and my husband Greg let me go, even though I’m the one with anxiety problems and many people might assume he’d be the one to carry Miles through such an ordeal. I’ll always be grateful to Greg for this.
And an ordeal was what it became for about ten minutes; when Miles saw that room and that team in their blue scrubs, surrounded by machines bigger than he is, he lost it, he fell apart. This laid-back kid, so much like his daddy in temperament, so able to take crises and roll with them, looked up into my eyes and began to cry. His cheeks flushed and wet, his eyes pleading, he held my hands with his sweaty palms and begged me not to make him walk over there and lay down. I knelt in front of him and told him to look at me, not at the room, and when he did, I explained what the machines did. I explained why the people were in blue scrubs. I explained what was about to happen, all this as succinctly as I could but in words he could understand. He was safe. Then we talked about how normal his feelings were, how okay it was to have them, how he could still feel what he felt and take a step toward the bed. We could do it together.
And we did.
When the mask went on, he panicked again, and I told him to look at me again, to watch my eyes, and this time I told him about how I did all this once, went into a room that looked like a giant bathroom and was surrounded by people in strange pajamas, and how I felt scared too, but I was safe, and when I woke up, I had him, I had this ten and a half pound wonder baby. His eyes were already starting to close, but he smiled, a big grin, and a few seconds later they told me he was asleep and I could leave.
He was home later that day, and his recovery has gone great. While I wouldn’t wish that experience on any kid, I’m so grateful I could be there for him while he went through it, because we have an understanding now. We’ve always been buds, he and I. We’ve always had a special something. But I feel like he learned in a way he may not have understood before, just how much he can count on me. Since he’s been home he’s needed some care of his surgery site, and he only lets me do it, a task both of us find uncomfortable (the poor kid far more than me), but we get through it, together. We have a routine, and he grits his teeth and we get it done, and at the end he thanks me for making it okay.
I know that as mothers we can’t always do this, we can’t always make everything okay. But it sure feels amazing when we can, doesn’t it?
Tonight we all went to dinner to celebrate Jason’s new job, and the restaurant booths were just a little tight for the five of us. Greg got a chair to put at the end of the table, and Beth and Miles both wanted to sit in it, but Beth got there first. Miles, sitting next to me, frowned and whined and started pouting, and I could tell we were about to witness a show. DO YOU PEOPLE SEE HOW UPSET I AM? HERE, LET ME SHOW YOU.
I asked him to look at me. He did. He’s hard of hearing, so a lot of important talks start with that request. I said, “Babe, when you do that, it makes us all feel bad. We want you to be happy with us, and it’s hard when you’re so upset. Next time you can sit in the end chair, okay? Can you be okay with that, and let this go, and come have some fun with us?”
He considered this a moment. Then he nodded, but his face was still set into a sour expression. I leaned down and put my face next to his.
“You realize you’re still frowning,” I said, my voice mock-serious. “Maybe you could try smiling.” His expression cracked for a second, and then went dour again. I kept going. “You must smile. You must smile right now, and do you know why? Because if you don’t, I’m going to eat your face.”
He started to laugh. I did too. I continued. “If you don’t smile, first I’m going to suck out your eyeballs, and then I’m going to chew on your chin, and then I’ll gnaw my way through your brains….”
And then he was cracking up, and he reached his arms up and put them around me, and pulled my head against his chest and said, “Oh Mom. I love you.”
BLISS.
These are the moments, aren’t they? Sitting in a Mexican restaurant stuffing our face with chips, and being able to change a minor tantrum into a cheerful goofy boy with a little bit of reason and a large dose of disgusting references to zombie-ism. This is when I take a deep breath and smile.
Miles after he woke up, sitting in recovery devouring graham crackers.
