School Days

Charli started 1st grade this week and neither of us were fully prepared. During the day is going fine.  Charlotte seems to be happy with her new class, her new teacher, and her new friends.  It is at home that all hell breaks loose.  We both are having trouble with returning to our morning insanity, oh, I mean, routine. Our mornings are back to being rushing, begging, pleading, pushing, dragging, scream-fests.  Then we all run to our separate places of work and then come back together in the evening for our nightly rounds of rushing, begging, and pleading.  Homeschooling looks more and more appealing with each passing day.  Charlotte would certainly be happy.  She really wants nothing more than to stay home with me, snuggle in a chair, and read good books all day.  She is such an old soul.  Which is why it is always so unexpected and frustrating when she melts down and throws tantrums.  It is only occasionally when we look at her and see the tiny child that she actually is.  Completely our fault.  She acts like a child because, well, she is one.  We act like children because we are immature and tired.  Seems like we would be able to see that doing less and working less would help everyone.  But, no.  We are products of our culture.  I need to have a career and a purpose outside of the home.  We need more "stuff".  I am sure I would be cranky and tired whether I worked outside of the home or only at home, but it just seems that I am spreading myself thin by trying to work in both places.  The mommy guilt rages on.

Worry

I worry.
I worry that I am not doing enough.
I worry that I am doing too much.
I worry that my big one is too sensitive.
I worry that she is insensitive to the needs and feelings of others.
I worry that my children are not getting enough sleep.
I worry that I don't spend enough time snuggling and talking to them at night.
I worry that I don't spend enough time with them during the day.
I worry that I don't spend enough time with my husband.
I worry that I don't nurture my children's talents by enrolling them in more activities.
I worry that they are over-scheduled and don't have enough down time.
I worry that they like television too much.
I worry that I am not doing enough at work.
I worry that my little one is getting pushed aside by the big one's needs.
I worry that my first born is getting her spirit crushed by life.
I worry that I am powerless.
I worry that everything I do has an impact on my girls.
I worry that I am not a good enough friend, wife, mother, worker, daughter, sister, in-law...
I worry that I am not good enough.
I worry.

Our 5-Year Old's Tonsillectomy and Adenoidectomy

We agonized over the decision to have the surgery done.  Charlotte had obstructive sleep apnea from her boulder-sized tonsils which meant that she snored since birth and would struggle to breathe at least some part of most nights.  When she would catch a cold, she would struggle to breathe with every breath, all night.  Even so, it took us a year before we decided to to go through with surgery.  Luckily the surgery went well.  Our ENT, anesthesiologist, and nurses were great.  We made an appointment with a Child Life Specialist at the hospital before surgery.  She gave Charlotte a tour of the hospital floor and rooms, let her play in the playroom, answered all of her (and our) questions, and gave her an anesthesia mask to take home and play with.  Charlotte was so brave the day of surgery.  She went willingly to the hospital and played in the playroom while we waited for over an hour.  She gave her daddy a kiss goodbye.  Then she held my hand and actually skipped back to the surgery area.  This earned her the name "the skipper" in the hospital for the rest of the day.  She kept her brave face on until I lay her on the bed in the surgery room.  She slowly got more wide eyed, then rolled onto her side and let the tears flow while she said "Mommy, I'm not sure about this."  Needless to say, the next second, my tears let loose.  So now we are both crying and I am trying, lamely to soothe her, while being inconsolable myself.  Luckily, the anesthesiologist was on his A-game and quickly suggested I cradle her in a swivel chair until she was asleep.  I held her and we both instantly calmed somewhat.  He then showed her how breathing into the mask inflated and deflated a balloon/bag.  She was fascinated and grabbed the mask and pressed it to her own face.  A few seconds later, her eyes began to roll and she said "this feels funny", as she had her first drug experience.  Then she was asleep and I was escorted out to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  An hour and a half later it was over and we were brought to the recovery room so we could be there when she woke up.  I was so thrilled that she was able to go to sleep in my arms and that we were the first thing she saw upon waking.  I think it helped her so much.  She stirred slowly and wanted lots of cuddles as she woke.  As she was cuddling me, she croaked out her first words ... "ice ...  cream".  I guessed she was doing alright.  Then we were given the news that she couldn't have milk products for 24 hours, but that she could have a popsicle when she got to her room.  She became interested in the room she was in and equipment around her.  She didn't like the bandage around her IV or the wires attached to her chest.  I showed her how the monitor showed her respirations on the screen.  She loved it and started to play with the line, talking slowly, breathing fast, and holding her breath.  I started to be nervous that she was going to make herself pass out, so I eventually made her stop.  She loved that her whole bed wheeled into the next recovery room.  She got herself a twin-pop and refused to share with her starving parents.  Two hours, two television shows, one dose of pain meds, and another popsicle later, we were discharged.  Charlotte said "I've had a big day" and fell asleep on the way home.