It's time for Ryan's eye checkup. If you're new to the blog, he has pediatric glaucoma. It's controlled, but must be maintained just the same.
As we made our way through the cold, busy Dallas freeways to Children's, he periodically offered only one statement.
"No eyes!"
Oh gee.
We ran through the parking lot, giggling, and made our way in the door, where he looked up and said, Christmas tree!" there was a ginormous tree decorated to the hilt just inside. On the glass-walled elevator, he even gasped and spouted a breathless "wow".
Soon as we hit the clinic, it was back to NO EYES. This time more fiercely determined.
Here's where it's hard to put into words.
He just doesn't like it. He doesn't care or understand unspoken, unavoidable social contracts, such as " we don't take and throw down a little boy's bear because it's sitting beside us while we play a video game in the waiting room."
*sigh*
As we entered the room, mercifully enough rather quickly, I informed the staff that this could be interesting. Get this: they always say they know, then act like they had no clue. Fun.
I'll spare you the really bad parts. Let's just say I was proud that it only took three of us... Yes, us. I insist on helping. He is my child. But it did take three of us to get the eye drops in place.
When I say it took three of us, I mean me to hold his arms and legs (which means half-laying on him), a nurse to hold his head, and a nurse to pry his eyes and place the drops. So much more than "not pretty". I hate doing this to him. He hates having it done.
We waited our thirty minutes or so in the waiting room with the aid of the iPod while the drops worked. He yelled out, hit, and fussed off an on about the elevator. Thankfully my two years of junior high basketball were on board for herding him back into the room. I had to hold him in my lap.
I had to hold his arms.
I had to hold his legs.
All that, speaking calmly while he hit his head with his fist and yelled.
He absolutely, unequivocally, positively HATES this. And I can't blame him.
BUT...
It only took three of us to hold him.
He was good for one of the three doctors... he only yelled at her a few times, and he did finally look at her.
He enjoyed the elevator ride down, then melted down in the parking lot when he realized that he maybe should have put on the sunglasses they offered. I offered them again in the car, again he refused. He rode home with his head on he console, shielded from the light.
Once we were back to the house, I told Eric and his parents how it went. Then I started to worry out loud about what happens when he's big enough that I can't hold him. Eric's mom (well, our mom...) said it best.
God will make a way.
She didn't bat an eye. And she was right.
A comforting blanket of reality and faith. No, the reality of faith.
Thanks be to God for the improvements, and for having the rest of the story prepared.
And, of course, thanks to Mom for being ready with the comfort.
As we made our way through the cold, busy Dallas freeways to Children's, he periodically offered only one statement.
"No eyes!"
Oh gee.
We ran through the parking lot, giggling, and made our way in the door, where he looked up and said, Christmas tree!" there was a ginormous tree decorated to the hilt just inside. On the glass-walled elevator, he even gasped and spouted a breathless "wow".
Soon as we hit the clinic, it was back to NO EYES. This time more fiercely determined.
Here's where it's hard to put into words.
He just doesn't like it. He doesn't care or understand unspoken, unavoidable social contracts, such as " we don't take and throw down a little boy's bear because it's sitting beside us while we play a video game in the waiting room."
As we entered the room, mercifully enough rather quickly, I informed the staff that this could be interesting. Get this: they always say they know, then act like they had no clue. Fun.
I'll spare you the really bad parts. Let's just say I was proud that it only took three of us... Yes, us. I insist on helping. He is my child. But it did take three of us to get the eye drops in place.
When I say it took three of us, I mean me to hold his arms and legs (which means half-laying on him), a nurse to hold his head, and a nurse to pry his eyes and place the drops. So much more than "not pretty". I hate doing this to him. He hates having it done.
We waited our thirty minutes or so in the waiting room with the aid of the iPod while the drops worked. He yelled out, hit, and fussed off an on about the elevator. Thankfully my two years of junior high basketball were on board for herding him back into the room. I had to hold him in my lap.
I had to hold his arms.
I had to hold his legs.
All that, speaking calmly while he hit his head with his fist and yelled.
He absolutely, unequivocally, positively HATES this. And I can't blame him.
BUT...
It only took three of us to hold him.
He was good for one of the three doctors... he only yelled at her a few times, and he did finally look at her.
He enjoyed the elevator ride down, then melted down in the parking lot when he realized that he maybe should have put on the sunglasses they offered. I offered them again in the car, again he refused. He rode home with his head on he console, shielded from the light.
Once we were back to the house, I told Eric and his parents how it went. Then I started to worry out loud about what happens when he's big enough that I can't hold him. Eric's mom (well, our mom...) said it best.
God will make a way.
She didn't bat an eye. And she was right.
A comforting blanket of reality and faith. No, the reality of faith.
Thanks be to God for the improvements, and for having the rest of the story prepared.
And, of course, thanks to Mom for being ready with the comfort.
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