I look at his sleeping face tonight and marvel at his spare and lithesome form, his barely civilized grace. That such a slender vessel could hold such bravery, such competence in difficult times I am in awe. My son had his tonsils out early this morning. He taught me a lesson in composure, today.
I don⿿t ever want to have to do this again. The hardest part was in the operating room, as he, so trusting, did as he was told, tried to blow up the ⿿balloon⿿, inhaling the anesthesia in great big gulps of air, his blue eyes fixed on mine. ⿿All you have to do is breathe, love,⿿ i told him. ⿿All you⿿re doing is going to sleep.⿿ I whispered these phrases over and over as his body tensed, his hands scrabbled in mine. Even warned to expect this, it was heart-wrenching to watch his body⿿s instinctual fight to remain conscious. His torso stiffened, his hands fought to free themselves from mine and rip the mask off his face and still he breathed in the very thing he fought because he had no choice, because he trusted the surgeons and his mama. I wanted to cry, and was visibly shaken when I returned to the pediatric pre-op area to wait for my boy to be wheeled back to me.
But for those of you who are wondering about the whole procedure, and how to deal with it afterwards: popcicles and ice cream and cottage cheese, oh my. Macaroni and cheese. Watermelon and sweet peaches. Soft, comforting foods. Snuggles. Good movies. Lots of love and praise for a scary day well done.
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