He was tucked in tight, covered by his bright, Downy infused blanket, literally bundled in prayers.  He held tight to his little “Marley” dog and gazed adoringly up at Dr. Nguyen.  I watched as they wheeled my sweet little baby back into surgery.  And I prayed.  Because sometimes that’s all you can do.    

An hour later, Dr. Bishop and Dr. Nguyen came to give us a full report of William’s surgery and success.   He peacefully went to sleep with the anesthesia and they were able to fully remove the cyst (the lab results are already back: totally benign).  He was in recovery, still sleeping and we’d be called in as soon as he began to wake up.  

Soon we were called back and the doors opened and I heard that sweet cry before I could see him.  “Meh, may!” he cried out when he saw me.  I hesitated, not knowing proper hospital protocol.  “Can I pick him up?” I anxiously asked the nurse.  “Of course,” she replied.  I untangled him from his IV tube and wrapped him in my arms.  Nothing so sweet as the smell of your own little baby.  “It stuck.  It stuck,” he repeated over and over again, referring to the IV stuck in his hand, held in place by a board that was wrapped tightly under his hand with gauze and tape.  He snuggled as close as he could as we walked through the hallways back to the Day Surgery unit.  

Grandma Nury and Grandpa Larry met up with us outside of Recovery and, as only 2 people were allowed to accompany William into Day Surgery, they were ready to part ways with us at the entrance, but William loudly protested.  “Noohree!  Noohree!”  he called out, referring to Nury.  I passed him over to Nury and he happily settled in her arms.  There is great comfort to be found in a grandma, I’ve learned.  

Once we were back in his individual room, he reached out for me and snuggled in tight as he prepared to nurse.  Soon his eyes became heavy and he drifted off to sleep, snuggled close against my chest.  Our world was right once again. 

So William’s surgery was successful, in more ways than one.  Obviously, physically it was a huge success.  But I think there was a spiritual side to this surgery, not so much for him as for me.  I learned that in the midst of our worries and anxiety the only place we can find great peace and comfort is in the Prince of Peace.  I’d forgotten that.  How grateful I am that I’ve been reminded.  

Grandma Cindy came to pick us up. Here he is, all ready to go home.

Peacefully sleeping the day after his surgery. Dr. Bishop removed the patch and aside from some swelling and bruising, his eye looks beautiful.

Right now…

…I wish it were next week or last week or any week but this week.  Tomorrow is William’s surgery. 

…I am praying.  I am praying for William.  I am praying for Dr. Bishop and Dr. Nguyen and asking the Lord to guide their hands.  I am praying for peace in my anxious, worried Mommy heart.

…I am so grateful that Mom is here.

…I am seeking balance.  Today I am teetering between grumpy and anxious and neither look good on me.

…I am wondering how Daxson always stays so calm.

…I am asking Our Blessed Mother to intercede on William’s behalf.  The Memorare is now commited to my memory. 

…I am asking you to please remember us in your prayers tomorrow.

…I am trying desperately to put tomorrow in God’s mighty and very capable hands, knowing that if I could just let go, my heart would be filled with peace. 

It’s happening again.  Although this time I didn’t misplace something, unless you can misplace your thoughts.  I’d like to think these are random events; the effects of being a busy mommy, rushing through the day, but I’m afraid it’s a little more than that.  It’s mindlessness again.  When will I learn to be conscious of each sweet moment? 

You think I’m exaggerating?  Fine, I’ll confess my mindlessness.  First instance that comes to mind was my shower the other day.  I was almost finished washing up when I thought to myself, ‘gee, I don’t remember my soap smelling this way.’  I sniffed it again.  It sure smelled familiar.  Right.  That would be because it was my shampoo.  Yep, I washed my body with my shampoo.  Well, maybe it was just a moment. 

Fast forward a few hours.  I was in the kitchen searching for the one cup measuring cup.  It was getting a little frustrating.  I knew Joseph and I had just used it very recently and I’m pretty sure I washed it.  Where could it be?  Maybe I put it away?  Nope, there’s an empty box in its place in the cupboard.  Strange.  Oh my.  I threw the cup away and put the trash in the cupboard.  Is that normal? 

Tonight I was making pasta, multi-tasking as women are so wont to do.  I was stirring spaghetti sauce, talking on the phone, playing Bert to Joseph’s Mary Poppins, trying to console a fussy toddler.  Did I put salt in the pasta?  I’m pretty sure I did.  I’m racking my brain, frantically trying to replay my actions.  I just can’t remember. 

It’s not forgetfulness.  I promise.  I have an excellent memory (believe me, it’s excellent…I can recite every single line of Mary Poppins…after all, sometimes I’m called upon to play Bert, sometimes I’m Mary, sometimes I’m Jane or Michael…I have to know my lines or it really slows down my little mimic).  So what is this syndrome I have?  It’s mindlessness.  Pure and simple.  Somehow I manage to get things done, but half the time I can’t remember what all I’ve done.  Again, just like before, I’m looking at my children but not really seeing them.  I’m hearing my husband but not really listening.  How can I possibly pass so mindlessly through my days?  We’re only given so much time here on Earth.  Only so much time to soak in all the details.  Only so much time to notice each passing moment.  Our children grow so fast.  Our lives move so quickly.  I hope you’ll take a moment today to really stop and savor the moment.  And don’t choose an extraordinary moment.  Choose one of the ordinary moments…the moment when your toddler puts his hands up and says, “Mommy Time”; the moment when your preschooler says, “Watch this Mommy”; the moment when your husband kisses you as he walks in the door…because that’s what makes our lives so incredibly rich and these moments won’t last forever.

Today Joseph was supposed to be napping, but he wasn’t.  Instead he was just resting, listening to a Jim Weiss CD and reading some books.  After a bit of time, I went in to check on him.  He was on his little knees, staring up at the crucifix that hangs over the bed, praying to Jesus.  It was such a sweet, spontaneous prayer.  When he finished, he looked at me and said, “Now Jesus is happy.”  I replied, “Yes, He is.  Jesus is always so happy when His little Joseph talks to Him.”  Joseph nodded.  Encouraged, I went on.  “Jesus is the Good Shepherd and you are one of His sheep.  He knows His sheep and cares for them always.”  Joseph interrupted and asked, “Mommy, what are you talking about?”  Guess I’ll save that lesson for another day.