This morning I had to take Beanie (girl, 7) to Children's Hospital for an eye appointment. She was born cross-eyed and wore glasses from about 8 mos until last year (she's getting them again, but that's another story). The doctor we see is with one of the most noteworthy pediatric ophthalmology practices in the region. We started out at the office a few blocks away, but our doctor stopped working in that office. We decided to follow her out to another office about an hour away. The last time we went there for a full appointment with refraction, though, we were gone for five hours. That's a bit much with three young children. So we decided to see her at the hospital instead, which is about 20 minutes away. Our first appointment there was today.
Background notes: (1) I hate driving, (2) I could get lost in my backyard, (3) I have panic attacks, (4) I often have panic attacks while lost and driving.
For whatever reason, traffic was backed up on the highway after rush hour. They closed another major E-W highway that goes downtown this month, so everything's a mess. We barely got there on time. Husband said "oh, just valet, it's so much easier!" Well, apparently, the 30 other parents running late that day had the same idea. I ended up having to loop back around a few times, which made us about 15 minutes late. Finally, I turn in the garage next door and start flying up the ramps, which are barely wide enough for a tricycle, let alone a minivan. I'm hitting curbs everywhere and start screaming, crying, and cursing (in no particular order).
Beanie started talking and I told (screamed at, really) her that she needed to be quiet because I couldn't think straight. Then came the breathing trouble. We finally got to a spot. She says "Do you have your inhaler with you?" I told her I did. We parked, I called the doctor's office and asked for directions from the structure. When I was done, I apologized for yelling at her. She said "I forgive you, Mom. I know how hard it is to be nervous." I was dumbfounded. I started to feel embarassed- maybe even ashamed that I required reassurance from a seven year old.
That's when I realized that she wasn't a little kid anymore; I mean, I still have to remind her to wash her hands after picking her nose and stuff, but she gets me. I don't have to refer her to my 12,957 manual pages. She doesn't look at me like I'm crazy when I laugh hysterically when I hear the word "poop (yep, laughing hysterically)." I don't have to ask for hugs, personal space, validation, or a tissue. She's right there. Every time. And I have to explain anything to her. She gets me. And.... she loves me anyway. So mostly, this post is for purposes of record for next time I want to move her bedroom to the garage because it's a fire hazard.
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