Yesterday was one of those days where the toddler wakes up kind of early from her nap but the skies are grey and pregnant mama just doesn't have the energy to figure out how to entertain twenty-plus pounds of constant motion until dinner time. She's been waking up a lot at night, (whether from the last couple teeth that are taking their sweet time to break through or just from sheer love of my company we'll probably never know) and this, coupled with the demands of her growing sibling, has left me feeling far more exhausted than I can ever remember being. And I'm counting the hazy, impossible days right after she was born.
It's on days like these that I am wildly grateful for where we live. This ship is like a giant playground for a little kid, and yesterday I decided to take her on an adventure with me to file a couple charts I had left in my bag from speech appointments the day before.
We made our way down the three flights of stairs to the hospital, and she helped me with the filing cabinet before wandering back out into the hallway and heading along the green floor towards my old ward. We didn't make it too far; the B Ward doors were wide open, the scene inside irresistible to such a curious little kid, and so we stopped in to say hello.
She was a little overwhelmed at first, sticking close to my leg while she surveyed the colourful chaos of the ten plastic surgery patients and their caregivers on that side of the ward. Pretty soon, though, she caught sight of a little girl about her own age, sitting with her mama in the corner bed. Zoe headed straight for her, stopping to straighten a blanket and greet an Auntie, and after a little coaxing she put out her little hand to her new friend in shy greeting.
I glanced up at the card above the little girl's bed, and my breath hitched like it does so often these days. Her name, when translated into English, was Perfect, and I can't imagine the strength it took for her mama to look at her brand new baby, at the feet that weren't like other children's feet with toes stuck together and strange, and speak that kind of life and love over her.
Perfect was just two months younger than Zoe, and soon they were happily seated on the floor, a metal tray of Jenga blocks between them as they solemnly built and knocked down towers. Zoe's friend had bandages on both her feet (a matter of some concern to my newly tender-hearted child), and a head all covered in carefully-tied puffs of hair (which provoked a bit of jealousy in the aforementioned child of mine), and they played together while a six year-old boy in the opposite bed watched with longing eyes.
I asked a translator whether he wanted to play with us, and he silently tucked his foot with the overgrown toe under him while she replied that he was too afraid to leave his bed. That he was ashamed. Zoe beckoned him over anyway, chirping at him to come, come, but he just ducked his head and nestled closer to his mama's side. And so she started bringing him blocks, one by one, until he had enough to make his own tower there in his safe corner. Until he was ready to face the rest of the ward and the rest of the world. She looked up at him with a grin and patted his leg and a shy smile broke onto his face as he started to build.
I sat there on the floor, and my heart was so full that I thought it would break into a thousand pieces. How is it that, after just a year and a half, my child knows how to love so much better than I do? Are they born with it, these strange little people who call us mama? I think they must be, and so the task that lies before me is to guard that impulsive, pure love in my daughter's heart, to keep it safe from a world that tells her that some people don't deserve it as much as others.
When she grows up, when she gets as old as her old mama, worn out and tired of the monotony of everyday life, it's those moments shared over Jenga blocks that I want her to carry with her. It's that kind of perfect love, poured out without hesitation, that I want to be the banner over her life. And maybe somewhere along the way she'll be able to teach me how it's done. I think we've already begun our lessons.
It's on days like these that I am wildly grateful for where we live. This ship is like a giant playground for a little kid, and yesterday I decided to take her on an adventure with me to file a couple charts I had left in my bag from speech appointments the day before.
We made our way down the three flights of stairs to the hospital, and she helped me with the filing cabinet before wandering back out into the hallway and heading along the green floor towards my old ward. We didn't make it too far; the B Ward doors were wide open, the scene inside irresistible to such a curious little kid, and so we stopped in to say hello.
She was a little overwhelmed at first, sticking close to my leg while she surveyed the colourful chaos of the ten plastic surgery patients and their caregivers on that side of the ward. Pretty soon, though, she caught sight of a little girl about her own age, sitting with her mama in the corner bed. Zoe headed straight for her, stopping to straighten a blanket and greet an Auntie, and after a little coaxing she put out her little hand to her new friend in shy greeting.
I glanced up at the card above the little girl's bed, and my breath hitched like it does so often these days. Her name, when translated into English, was Perfect, and I can't imagine the strength it took for her mama to look at her brand new baby, at the feet that weren't like other children's feet with toes stuck together and strange, and speak that kind of life and love over her.
Perfect was just two months younger than Zoe, and soon they were happily seated on the floor, a metal tray of Jenga blocks between them as they solemnly built and knocked down towers. Zoe's friend had bandages on both her feet (a matter of some concern to my newly tender-hearted child), and a head all covered in carefully-tied puffs of hair (which provoked a bit of jealousy in the aforementioned child of mine), and they played together while a six year-old boy in the opposite bed watched with longing eyes.
I asked a translator whether he wanted to play with us, and he silently tucked his foot with the overgrown toe under him while she replied that he was too afraid to leave his bed. That he was ashamed. Zoe beckoned him over anyway, chirping at him to come, come, but he just ducked his head and nestled closer to his mama's side. And so she started bringing him blocks, one by one, until he had enough to make his own tower there in his safe corner. Until he was ready to face the rest of the ward and the rest of the world. She looked up at him with a grin and patted his leg and a shy smile broke onto his face as he started to build.
I sat there on the floor, and my heart was so full that I thought it would break into a thousand pieces. How is it that, after just a year and a half, my child knows how to love so much better than I do? Are they born with it, these strange little people who call us mama? I think they must be, and so the task that lies before me is to guard that impulsive, pure love in my daughter's heart, to keep it safe from a world that tells her that some people don't deserve it as much as others.
When she grows up, when she gets as old as her old mama, worn out and tired of the monotony of everyday life, it's those moments shared over Jenga blocks that I want her to carry with her. It's that kind of perfect love, poured out without hesitation, that I want to be the banner over her life. And maybe somewhere along the way she'll be able to teach me how it's done. I think we've already begun our lessons.