Slowing Down

My little Piper has inherited a few things from me.  My big blue eyes, smooshed little nose, a love of reading, a tendency toward self-pity, and, worst of all, headaches.

Those babies have haunted me since early elementary age and to this day keep me using up the IB and Excederin bottles, and, at times, morph into fierce migraines that come to haunt me a few times a year. 

I am truly sorry, my Pipes.

Assuming that she had my eyesight problems, I took her to the eye doctor right after they started.  We found out that she is a little far-sighted, nothing that a pair of reading glasses wouldn't fix.  

Still, the headaches have persisted.  We have an appointment with her pediatrician coming up, which I'm sure will go as follows:  "Does anyone in her family have reoccurring headaches?"  "Yes.  Myself, her grandfather, aunt... I could go on."  "It's probably hereditary."  Then he'll have her do some walking and balance tests to check for a brain tumor, tell me to give her the right dosage of IB, and send us on our merry way.  How do I know this?  It's exactly what happened to me 21 years ago when my own mother took me to see my pediatrician about my headaches.

For now, Pipes and I have found our own way of dealing with these persistent little buggers.

We find the quietest room in our house (which is not an easy thing to do).  I put a warm rag on her neck, have her lay down in my lap, and I rub her head slowly and softly.  With the steady hum of a white-noise fan in the background and all the lights off and the blinds shut, it is very soothing.  I hum quietly to her, and watch as Piper slowly relaxes the muscles in her body: her feet stop tapping, her hands unclench and come to lay quietly beside her, and her neck nestles deeper into the pillow. 

I sit there with her until the noise outside of our little cocoon becomes so great that I know if I don't step in as referee soon the house might turn into a WWE wrestling ring.

Before I try to slip out of the room unnoticed, I realize that there aren't enough of these quiet moments in motherhood.  My day is mostly filled with loud, unrelenting busyness.  The cooking, cleaning, homework, laundry, chores, teaching, errands, correcting, activities, routines... it all turns into one loud blur.  Most nights, once 8 o'clock hits and the kids are all tucked tightly into bed, I collapse on the couch, breath a huge sigh of relief, and just revel in the sudden stillness.

But I need to search out these quiet moments with my children.  Yes, they do come on their own.   Every great once-in-a-while Wyatt will wake up from his nap, and while still groggy from sleep, he'll wrap his chubby little arms around my neck and squeeze me tight.  This may not seem like a big deal to you, but this kid is not exactly affectionate.  Seriously, if he voluntarily kisses me, I send a text to Orrin telling him all about it.  So when this moment happens, I stand still and just melt in those tiny little toddler arms. 

Every night before I tuck Porter's Cars blanket around him as tight as I can (as requested), I lay next to him and read him one of his favorite animal books.  Then he has me sing him a song (usually with funny voices) and I ask him what his best part of the day was (it is almost always "You singing to me").  I try to stand up and he pulls me back down next to him and asks me to tell him a story.  Sometimes I comply, and sometimes I tell him no, it's bedtime.  He always asks me for one more kiss and then he grabs my face and licks my cheek.  He then tells me, "I love you Mommy." 

Adi is probably the most difficult to get quiet.  She is always bustling with ideas and questions (something that she might get from her mother), and having her lay still and talk quietly is almost impossible.  But every so often, usually when I am reading, this girl will sneak into my lap, lay her head against my chest, and just start talking to me.  I'll set my book aside, stroke her long California-Surfer-Girl hair and just listen.  Which is very hard for me to do.  But I have come to realize that Ad is at the age where being heard is more important to her than her problems being fixed. 

Perhaps it is better that these moments happen on their own.  If I tried to force them it would most likely end in frustration on my part and on theirs. 

So I will take them as they come. 

And I will cherish them.