Thursday, March 26, 2015

I shall whisper this to you and "How to Be More Tree-like"

I debated about "tree-esque" for the title.  That didn't seem to work well.  But that's neither here-nor-there.  Unless you're counting the title as a "there;" in that case, it is (right up) there.

So the Younger thinks that Mommy always has cold hands.  And she's spreading these rumors around her inner circles, e.g. to her pre-school teacher.  Apparently, when said teacher was helping hold her on the potty last week and apologized for having cold hands, the Younger leaned forward in a conspiratorial way (let's make this was emphasized to me this way and I find it to be hilarious) and whispered "Mommy's hands are always cold."  Vile rumors. 

Maybe there's a shred of truth. 

Seriously, what's the point of having young children (who either aren't strong enough or not dexterous enough to fight back with any authority) if you can't touch their delicious bare baby skin, which serves the purpose of both warming your own hands (because they're always WARM even when running around like little nudists) and fulfilling your sensory deprivation for soft things.  I might be the only mother of two high schoolers who still tries to find that soft, soft skin to our children's utter embarrassment.  IT'S SO PERFECT AND DELICIOUS AND UNACCOUNTABLY PERFECT! 

Having two little people with downy soft skin is the only way that I can withstand the pleading, liquid eyes of puppies and kittens.

I have spent too long waxing poetic on the merits of what every adult probably already knows, and like a veritable fool, I always seem to drain my computer's battery willy-nilly the night before my coffeeshoptimeallformeallforme, so the rest of this might need to be quick.  Read: I don't want to have to scout out an outlet since someone's usurped my sweet cushy chair corner.  (Actually, it would mean that I have to shift over one table and plug in.  A sacrifice that no one should make since that requires moving one table closer to the door and it's cold outside.)

So it turns out that a concerning bit of discomfort/tenderness is nothing more than "fibrous tissue."  Hello you-are-what-you-eat.  (I jest, but as I'm typing this, Simon & Garfunkel's "I am a Rock" is playing over the coffee shop's music system, specifically the refrain: I am a rock, I am an island.  Well, I am a tree, too.)

I keep thinking of that phrase, "fibrous tissue," and envisioning trees.  Who's with me here...?

And friend, I knew that this was a likelihood going into my appointment, but still, how does one avoid the inevitable "But what if it is..." conversations that run through your mind in the week between when you make the appointment and when you actually hear the words? 

Here's what I came up with when my first thought was the default "I have cancer, and how are we going to deal with it?"  My kids are my NUMBER ONE right now for why I would fight a cancer diagnosis.  The boy is NUMBER TWO.  And someday, that ranking will be reversed, but for right now, that's the way it is.  And that right there is just about my every reason for why I would fight a devastating diagnosis, and those two reasons are enough for me to fight hard.  But, here's my moment of honesty, a blip-scare such as this resulted in a complete feeling of peace that it would be okay.  My girls and the boy would be okay.  Should a diagnosis be despair upon devastating, I feel that I would be calm about that outlook.  I would plead with my God for miraculous healing but would do as I did this week.  I prayed and prayed often for calm in the face of whatever the outcome should be.  God has my life firmly in his hands and heart.  He knows, and that is enough for me. 

So in the interim, I'll just go on being a tree.  Because how amazing is that?  I felt like the happiest tree in town yesterday afternoon.

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