It's been an emotional week here at Mellow Lane. I'll start by saying the everything is just fine, in fact, better than fine. Better because I am more grateful for my life than usual.
Almost a month ago, while we were on vacation, Juliette and Zachary were sharing a bed. Juliette and Zachary both like to be scratched when they are sleepy and somehow Juliette convinced Zachary to scratch her back and her legs. (This is not surprising as Juliette can convince just about anyone to do just about anything. Even her preschool teacher, when asked by a friend how she can stay strong with all those strong-willed preschoolers, said, "Oh I never have trouble saying no to them at all. Except Juliette. If Juliette asks for the doll house, I'll get it down. If she wants the dress up clothes, they're hers. For some reason I just can't no to her!" This is not good.) Anyway, she convinced Zachary to scratch her legs and in doing so, he found a lump on the back of her right knee. Being a sensitive middle child (totally unlike his mother. cough. cough.), Zachary freaked out. He came running out of the bedroom, Juliette trailing absently and smiley behind him. We looked and felt the back of her leg, and indeed there was a lump behind her leg. We assured Zachary that it was probably nothing, but that we would check with our friend, who is a pediatric radiologist when we got home. This appeased him and both kids went to bed. (Notice I said appeased "him" -- Juliette was totally unfazed.)
A few days later, we saw Dr. Friend, who looked at and felt the back of Juliette's knee. She thought it was probably nothing, probably just a blah de blah or a blah de blah. (It all went over my head. On purpose. I knew if I knew something specific I'd be on WebMD, which is the devil.) She told us not to worry, but to keep an eye on it just in case. This made us (and Zachary) feel better.
Then last week, Juliette was walking in front of me and, all of a sudden, her lump looked much bigger. (It's about the size of half a ping pong ball for reference.) I called Dr. Friend right away and we went to her house later that afternoon. She looked and poked and felt and still thought it was probably still just a blah de blah but since she is someone who looks at films and not at feeling actual kids, she couldn't be sure. She did agree that the lump was bigger. She suggested that we go to see her friend at Children's Hospital who could tell us definitively what the lump is. "Don't freak out when you hear what kind of doctor he is. He's the lump guy. He's the very best and he'll know what it is." The lump guy is a pediatric orthopedic oncologist.
You don't really want to hear or read or use the word "oncologist" when you're talking about your four year old. You just don't. It also doesn't make you feel too much better when the lump guy's office is able to squeeze you into a completely full schedule "for something like that." (Though I felt so grateful that I would have to wait less than a week to see him in the clinic, which is close to our home - and not at the hospital - on his next day there.) And so we went on with our lives, tried not to think about it and waited patiently until it was the day for our appointment. My mom was able to clear her afternoon to watch Annalise and Zachary, pick them up and drop them off at their various activities, so just Juliette and I made the trek to the doctor. It was afternoon and so Juliette, who no longer naps, was pretty sleepy in the car, and therefore quiet. (She's never quiet.) Unfortunately this gave me time to think. (I rarely have time to think. Except when I'm falling asleep. I don't sleep too well.) And as much as I tried not to let it happen, my mind "went there." I thought about what it would mean to have a kid with cancer. I thought about how our lives would change, and everything we would do to fight. I thought about how tough my little girl already is and how tough she would have to be. I even thought about losing her. And then I decided I had to stop thinking. I cranked up the VBS tunes (and if you know how much I dislike over-produced children singing, then you can only imagine how much I can't stand listening to the VBS CD). Fortunately it perked Juliette up and we sang along, badly and loudly, while she attempted to remember the "moves" in her carseat. Much better than thinking.
We arrived at the clinic, and were greeted so warmly and cheerfully in a bright, open waiting room, well stocked with blocks and nice books. (Like really nice books, like the kind you would actually buy or check out at the library or want to read. Not like the usual torn, ragged, chewed crap books that you'd never even look at in normal life, but you will read over and over out of desperation, kicking yourself for neglecting to bring books from home, that you usually see in waiting rooms.) We read about Piggie and Elephant and holes which are to dig and waited our turn. I looked around at the other parents and children, some playing happily, some sitting quietly with their parents, one infant, and one preschooler with a prosthetic leg screaming "I hate this leg!"and wondered if I would be back in this waiting room another time; if I would become a regular, if I would meet other parents waiting anxiously like I was, if this would become another home for us.
It was our turn and a lovely nurse led us to our room, asked questions, looked and took notes. She was followed soon after by the lump guy's PA (also lovely), who asked more questions. She lovingly helped Juliette roll over onto her stomach on the table and gave her a pen for her to draw on the paper covering the table. She felt her leg, asked more questions and attempted to shine a light at Juliette's lump. Apparently there isn't much use for the light in the orthopedic rooms and the light was out. She led us to another room where we met the lump guy. Equally lovely, he let Juliette get comfortable before he poked at her lump also. She was a little nervous, so she laid on my chest while he shown the light all the way through the lump, its red light going all the way through, revealing that the lump was indeed the blah de blah which Dr. Friend had suspected all along... a Baker's cyst. The light will shine all the way through only liquid or air and since there is no air in this part of the body, the lump is indeed liquid. A Baker's cyst in children is totally benign and usually not painful at all. There is absolutely nothing that needs to be done. Juliette is totally fine and the cyst will eventually just go away on its own. He said that some day we will look down and just realize that it is gone. We spent much of the appointment remarking on how fabulous Juliette's big brother was to have found the cyst in the first place. What a great little kid.
So my baby is going to be fine. She is totally, totally fine. She is the same happy and healthy girl that she was last week and last month and last year.
I am grateful, so grateful I don't even know what to do or say to express just how grateful I feel. Honestly the whole episode has been an exercise in gratitude: gratitude for a not-even-yet eight year old big brother who found the lump to begin with; gratitude for a dear friend who is willing to look at my daughter (and the daughters and sons of all our friends because she is the kind of friend who doesn't mind looking at the rash, hurt wrist, etc.); gratitude that she has a friend who is a leader in the field; gratitude for a staff fitting us in when they could have told us to wait a month and gratitude for a mom who can watch my other kids so I can focus on the one who needed the attention at that time. Mostly I am grateful for my beautiful family, with all our ups and downs, nooks and crannies, temper tantrums and doldrums and giggles and tickle tortures and hugs and kisses. And scratches. I'm grateful for scratches.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
I'm a Dance Mom
True confession time: I'm a dance mom. I fully admit that this is a role I have embraced and grown to love, but in no way did I ever expect that this would a part of my life. Soccer mom? Yes. Baseball mom? Yes. Minivan-driving suburban mom? OK, it wasn't on my list of things I hoped for, but I'm not too terribly surprised that I ended up there. But dance mom? Oh hell no. No way. No how. Not in a million years. But somehow I ended up here. It's been a journey. Before you judge me, let me share a little of the journey with you.
When Annalise was young she was painfully shy. Painfully. She was the kid who was constantly attached to my leg. She would spend playdates and parent ed on my lap or clinging to my side or in my arms. It would take serious coaxing to get her to play. Even when we were with kids she'd known her entire life, she would cling and worry. Until she was fine. It just often took her hours to be fine. She wanted to go to the birthday party, but she wouldn't participate. Until the end. About fifteen minutes before the party was over, she'd start to have a great time. And then she'd have a fit that it was time to leave. With a mom who stayed home full time and being the oldest child (and only child, for almost three years), she was almost always with me. She had yet to start preschool. She didn't have a lot of opportunities to spend time with other kids without me. So when a friend suggested she take a dance class, I thought it might be a good idea.
Annalise was almost three. I was due with Zachary any day. (And then I was overdue with Zachary. Every time I would walk/waddle down that ramp with Annalise, I'd hear, "Are you still here!?" I swear I was pregnant with that child for two years.) But I digress. Annalise was technically too young for the class, but they made an exception for her. (Probably not the smartest move they'd ever made.) Well, she loved the class. No clinging. No whining. No crying. Just a little girl having a whole lot of fun. There was a little problem though. She wasn't dancing. She jumped and she ran and she giggled. But there wasn't a lot of dancing coming from that kid. So we took a break for a while. We tried a different class at a different studio the following summer. Egh. Not impressed with the class. Annalise didn't really like it and neither did I.
When Annalise was a little over four, we tried again, back at the original studio. This time, something stuck. Right from the beginning, Annalise was happy there. She loved her teacher. She ran into class with glee. She didn't need me to hold onto her, hold her hand, peel her arm off my leg. And going in, she didn't even know any of the kids. For the first time in her little life, Annalise was at home. (Home away from home, that is. At home, the child was funny and silly and talked incessantly, sang and danced and told stories, made jokes. Away from home: leg clinger.) She was so happy at dance class we really couldn't believe it. And so somehow we got suckered into becoming dance parents. It happened so subtly that we really didn't see it coming. It kind of snuck up on us and took hold before we even realized it had happened.
Before Annalise's recital, I asked the studio owner what would happen when she ran off the stage in a panic as soon as her music started. She attempted to assure me that it wouldn't happen; that it almost never happens and it wasn't going to happen with Annalise. "Uh huh, " I said. "So what are you going to do when she runs off the stage in a panic?" Again, she tried to convince me it wouldn't happen. Clearly she didn't know my kid at all.
The day of the recital arrived. I curled and curled and hairsprayed my four year old daughter's long, straight-as-a-stick hair, knowing it would be completely flat by the time she went on stage. I put blush and mascara and lipstick on my four year old. (I could write a whole blog entry on putting makeup on children. It is one of the weirdest things I've ever done. I don't even wear makeup myself, so this is bizarro land for me. And I suck at it. She's lucky if the makeup is anywhere close to the right spot on her face.) I dressed Annalise in shiny black tap shoes tied with red grosgrain ribbons, tan tights, and a polyester stars and stripes dress. Backstage I helped her instructor bobby pin on seven white sailor hats. They were ready to perform thirty seven seconds worth of "The Good Ship Lollipop." I went and sat down, ready to jump onto the stage to retrieve my screaming daughter. It didn't happen. She came on, in her line of little American flag-clad girls, and did her dance. Her head was turned, watching her teacher off stage most of the routine; she didn't smile, but she never did look like she was going to make a run for it.
I went to retrieve her from backstage. A smiling, happy and proud little girl awaited me. She LOVED it! She loved it so much she wanted to stay and watch the rest of the show. We changed her out of her costume and went upstairs to the balcony to watch. She stood on the edge of the balcony, hanging on the railing, completely enthralled by the show in front of her. At the end of the show they called all the dancers back on stage for the finale. Since we didn't know this was going to happen, we'd stayed upstairs, Annalise in a sundress and not her costume. Once she saw what was happening, and that she could be back on that stage, Annalise had an absolute fit. She wanted back on that stage so badly that we had to drag her out of there crying. She was totally hooked.
And that's how it all began. From there, we continued on. Annalise took one tap/ballet class a week. She dabbled in hip hop. (She'll tell you this was not her strong suit. It wasn't.) We kept her at the small studio where she had started. They were personal and loving and greeted her by name and with a giant hug before every class. They made her feel special. And Annalise bloomed. We watched our shy little girl grow not only in skill and grace but we watched her gain confidence and poise. She learned how to handle pressure, rise to the occasion and role with the punches. She learned to deal with last minute changes, recover from mishaps. And she learned about hard work. Dancing does not come naturally to her. She has a hard time remembering choreography. Her musicality was lacking. And she gets her flexibility from my dad, which is to say she could barely touch her toes. As a four year old. She's a lucky girl; most things come really easily for her: school, soccer, softball, running, most things she tries. She's never the best at anything, but she's always one of the best, and without much effort at all. Dance has taught her to have a strong work ethic. It has been amazing for her and has helped to transform her into the confident child whom I know today.
Over the years Annalise has increased the time she spends in the studio each week. She was on the company at the small studio where she started when she was four. We went to dance competitions. (Yes, dance competitions. This is another blog post as well.) We've done quick changes backstage at recitals where she was in six different routines. And then her studio closed. We saw it coming. We weren't surprised, but she was deeply saddened all the same. So this year we made a move to a much bigger studio. MUCH bigger! She is now a small fish in a big pond. And the kid is swimming! She's thriving! And she's happy. And now her little sister is dancing, too. And loving it as well. And that kid loves the stage as much as her sister. She even has the smiles and facial expressions on stage already. Oh boy. I got another one.
So, yeah, I'm a dance mom. I put mascara on small children. I own Aqua Net. I buy booty shorts and foot thongs. And I've seen the power of dance. I've seen how being on a stage can bring out the best in someone. I know the confidence that comes from learning to do the splits on all three sides, mastering a double pirouette, winning a special judges award at a competition. I will try my best to not be a crazy dance mom, but I will continue to load my minivan up with dancers and bring them to the studio, where they will learn about team work, dedication and hard work.
When Annalise was young she was painfully shy. Painfully. She was the kid who was constantly attached to my leg. She would spend playdates and parent ed on my lap or clinging to my side or in my arms. It would take serious coaxing to get her to play. Even when we were with kids she'd known her entire life, she would cling and worry. Until she was fine. It just often took her hours to be fine. She wanted to go to the birthday party, but she wouldn't participate. Until the end. About fifteen minutes before the party was over, she'd start to have a great time. And then she'd have a fit that it was time to leave. With a mom who stayed home full time and being the oldest child (and only child, for almost three years), she was almost always with me. She had yet to start preschool. She didn't have a lot of opportunities to spend time with other kids without me. So when a friend suggested she take a dance class, I thought it might be a good idea.
Annalise was almost three. I was due with Zachary any day. (And then I was overdue with Zachary. Every time I would walk/waddle down that ramp with Annalise, I'd hear, "Are you still here!?" I swear I was pregnant with that child for two years.) But I digress. Annalise was technically too young for the class, but they made an exception for her. (Probably not the smartest move they'd ever made.) Well, she loved the class. No clinging. No whining. No crying. Just a little girl having a whole lot of fun. There was a little problem though. She wasn't dancing. She jumped and she ran and she giggled. But there wasn't a lot of dancing coming from that kid. So we took a break for a while. We tried a different class at a different studio the following summer. Egh. Not impressed with the class. Annalise didn't really like it and neither did I.
When Annalise was a little over four, we tried again, back at the original studio. This time, something stuck. Right from the beginning, Annalise was happy there. She loved her teacher. She ran into class with glee. She didn't need me to hold onto her, hold her hand, peel her arm off my leg. And going in, she didn't even know any of the kids. For the first time in her little life, Annalise was at home. (Home away from home, that is. At home, the child was funny and silly and talked incessantly, sang and danced and told stories, made jokes. Away from home: leg clinger.) She was so happy at dance class we really couldn't believe it. And so somehow we got suckered into becoming dance parents. It happened so subtly that we really didn't see it coming. It kind of snuck up on us and took hold before we even realized it had happened.
Before Annalise's recital, I asked the studio owner what would happen when she ran off the stage in a panic as soon as her music started. She attempted to assure me that it wouldn't happen; that it almost never happens and it wasn't going to happen with Annalise. "Uh huh, " I said. "So what are you going to do when she runs off the stage in a panic?" Again, she tried to convince me it wouldn't happen. Clearly she didn't know my kid at all.
The day of the recital arrived. I curled and curled and hairsprayed my four year old daughter's long, straight-as-a-stick hair, knowing it would be completely flat by the time she went on stage. I put blush and mascara and lipstick on my four year old. (I could write a whole blog entry on putting makeup on children. It is one of the weirdest things I've ever done. I don't even wear makeup myself, so this is bizarro land for me. And I suck at it. She's lucky if the makeup is anywhere close to the right spot on her face.) I dressed Annalise in shiny black tap shoes tied with red grosgrain ribbons, tan tights, and a polyester stars and stripes dress. Backstage I helped her instructor bobby pin on seven white sailor hats. They were ready to perform thirty seven seconds worth of "The Good Ship Lollipop." I went and sat down, ready to jump onto the stage to retrieve my screaming daughter. It didn't happen. She came on, in her line of little American flag-clad girls, and did her dance. Her head was turned, watching her teacher off stage most of the routine; she didn't smile, but she never did look like she was going to make a run for it.
I went to retrieve her from backstage. A smiling, happy and proud little girl awaited me. She LOVED it! She loved it so much she wanted to stay and watch the rest of the show. We changed her out of her costume and went upstairs to the balcony to watch. She stood on the edge of the balcony, hanging on the railing, completely enthralled by the show in front of her. At the end of the show they called all the dancers back on stage for the finale. Since we didn't know this was going to happen, we'd stayed upstairs, Annalise in a sundress and not her costume. Once she saw what was happening, and that she could be back on that stage, Annalise had an absolute fit. She wanted back on that stage so badly that we had to drag her out of there crying. She was totally hooked.
And that's how it all began. From there, we continued on. Annalise took one tap/ballet class a week. She dabbled in hip hop. (She'll tell you this was not her strong suit. It wasn't.) We kept her at the small studio where she had started. They were personal and loving and greeted her by name and with a giant hug before every class. They made her feel special. And Annalise bloomed. We watched our shy little girl grow not only in skill and grace but we watched her gain confidence and poise. She learned how to handle pressure, rise to the occasion and role with the punches. She learned to deal with last minute changes, recover from mishaps. And she learned about hard work. Dancing does not come naturally to her. She has a hard time remembering choreography. Her musicality was lacking. And she gets her flexibility from my dad, which is to say she could barely touch her toes. As a four year old. She's a lucky girl; most things come really easily for her: school, soccer, softball, running, most things she tries. She's never the best at anything, but she's always one of the best, and without much effort at all. Dance has taught her to have a strong work ethic. It has been amazing for her and has helped to transform her into the confident child whom I know today.
Over the years Annalise has increased the time she spends in the studio each week. She was on the company at the small studio where she started when she was four. We went to dance competitions. (Yes, dance competitions. This is another blog post as well.) We've done quick changes backstage at recitals where she was in six different routines. And then her studio closed. We saw it coming. We weren't surprised, but she was deeply saddened all the same. So this year we made a move to a much bigger studio. MUCH bigger! She is now a small fish in a big pond. And the kid is swimming! She's thriving! And she's happy. And now her little sister is dancing, too. And loving it as well. And that kid loves the stage as much as her sister. She even has the smiles and facial expressions on stage already. Oh boy. I got another one.
So, yeah, I'm a dance mom. I put mascara on small children. I own Aqua Net. I buy booty shorts and foot thongs. And I've seen the power of dance. I've seen how being on a stage can bring out the best in someone. I know the confidence that comes from learning to do the splits on all three sides, mastering a double pirouette, winning a special judges award at a competition. I will try my best to not be a crazy dance mom, but I will continue to load my minivan up with dancers and bring them to the studio, where they will learn about team work, dedication and hard work.
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