4:00am Mommy, can I have some mashed potatoes?
430am I'm hungry!!
500am I'm reallllllllyyyyy hunnnnnngry!
It's not daytime yet, honey. Just a little while longer.
600am Wahhhh! Wahhhh! hungry! Wahhhh!
6:05am Can I have another waffle?
6:10am Can I have another waffle?
6:15am I want another waffle!!!!
You cannot have a fifth waffle. I'm serious.
6:16am I thought you were making some mashed potatoes? After that, can I have some pancakes? Dadddy said I could.
Be patient, child!
6:17pm OK. But didn't Ami's mom bring meatballs? I could eat those while I wait.
Repeat. Ad nauseum. 24/7. Food is the only thing she talks about. It's the only thing she's interested in. It's the one thing guaranteed to piss her off enough that you should watch her out of the corner of your eye while sleeping if you make her go to bed without a stack of flap-jacks, a side of sausage, toast, eggs, and "I thought you said you were bringing syrup?"
If it weren't so funny and fucked up, it would be sad, which it totally is. But what's sadder is that I realized I probably wouldn't care quite so much if a) she could get up her own damn self and make her own damn mashed potatoes and b) she didn't look like she was the winning sitcom actress for the "Stereotypical Fat Child" casting call.
Yes, she really asks that often, and really eats that often, and really increased her own body weight by more than 20% in one week. (That's like me going from 108 to 130 in one week. If I weighed 108.)
Yes, she's really that hungry. As you may already know, I love the dictionary because it reminds us what words really mean, not just how we use them.
hun·gry
/ˈhəNGgrē/
Adjective
|
She is unrecognizable to me. I make her stare into my eyes daily so I can see if she is in there. But I don't see her most of the time. She's a cranky, crabby, bitchy, steroid raging whiner. Not to say she was never a cranky, crabby, bitchy, raging whiner before but with me, she wasn't. (For Kevin and Teachers, she was, so apparently she is just living up to her full potential by unleashing it on me.) But most of the time she was just cute, sweet, and funny as hell, letting me bask in the moments when you think parenting is worth it. Did I mention she was cute?
"Luckily" (I don't know what that word means anymore), our doctor appointment this week introduced me to three other mothers who were slightly farther along in the Protocol (I think we are being reprogrammed and haven't heard the creepy sci-fi music yet), and they assured me that in a few weeks I will be fondly recalling the days of Perceived Starvation because she will lack any appetite at all, thus giving me cause to fear True Starvation. The doctor followed that up with "Quit trying to feed her broccoli. Feed her whatever the hell she wants. Put cheerios next to her bed at night."
It's amazing how one deviation from the norm can send me spinning in one direction (healthy! eat healthy, child! no more pancakes!") and the next sends me bouncing in the next direction (Slap some Crisco on that Eggo, girl!). I hate feeling as though I act upon the whispers of others' opinions. A lot. I know this all made sense, I went with it (and no, I am not putting crisco on her eggos...only on her bacon-wrapped egg yolks).
She's not happy being so hungry. She's not happy feeling so bloated. She's not happy. I want her to be happy more than I want her to look like herself. If she'd been horribly disfigured (i.e., worse than a giant hamster), I'd still love her like a mother. With cancer, an attitude, and a Homer Simpson belly, I love her like a mother. I'm still so proud of her for hardly complaining about a damn thing except the lack of food being shoveled into her tiny pie-hole (and let me say, she eats like she's on the 2-minute meal program in prison or the military).
She's a trooper-and-a-half at the clinic when they are ramming the needle in her chest and she watches as the nurses cringe when she screams and they ask mommy, "didn't you give her the numbing cream?" Most adults would have knocked out the nurse and vowed never to return.
Sidenote to the LUMC: You didn't give me any numbing cream, prescribe any numbing cream, or mentioning any goddamn numbing cream that needed to given at home. Find me a doctor NOW because I have about fucking had it with each medical professional assuming that some OTHER medical professional clued me into something pertinent and, apparently, very achievable, like searing pain when someone stuffs a needle into your three-year-old chest. Did they not SEE
But she doesn't sound like Aria most of the time and she looks like Aria none of the time. I care for her right now like I would care for any 3-year-old child with leukemia. With love, concern, patience, and a strong touch of distance because I have no idea how to approach her. When I kiss, she wipes it off. When I hug, she wines. She's pissed and I don't blame her, but dammit, I'm mommy, the ONLY person that's supposed to make you feel better when you are 3. Let me do my goddamn job.
Meanwhile, back at the Sanity Ranch, let me share the good news, which is that next week there is no chemotherapy, only the spinal tap and bone marrow test to check for MRD (minimum residual disease), i.e., leukemia cells that managed to survive the onslaught of Vinchristine, Methotrexate, and Pegaspargase (that's for you, mom) that have been swarming through her marrow in search of fast-maturing cells (apparently cancer cells are in a hurry to grow up...just like hair cells, which is why you lose your hair during chemo.)
May I < end rant > with this: "Why? Charlie Brown, Why?" is perhaps the one title of a children's story about leukemia that really, really, drives me to write my own. Was Charlie Brown not fucking dark enough already? (Actually, the video has a much better tone than I ascribed to the book. But the title. Oh, the title.)
Btw, Charlie Brown: Although Janice was so happy you visited her, kids aren't allowed on the pediatric oncology floor. So if she's an orphan, as she appears to be, she's screwed. And along that line, I think this was 'toon made before Obamacare and she'd be so totally not be in a private room.
Also, Linus, I was completely rooting for you and your rage, but dude, you didn't slug him. Lucy lands CB on his ass every football practice, but you don't clock the bully. You were eloquent, I admit, but I'm just not that evolved. I wanted blood.
Also, Lucy, you are still a stupid bitch who needs her ass kicked by Peppermint Patty while Sally looks on saying exasperatingly annoying things.
p.s. I swear a lot. If I offend you, please substitute all words with the word "euphemism!"
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