Afterwards, despite the non-stop fighting she did while the doctor was putting the stitches in, she acted like nothing was different. “Want a sucker?” the nurse asked her, and of course, she nodded. She played all afternoon and proved to me, again, just how resilient kids are and just how far I have to go as a mother.
You see, though I wasn’t all emotional about those five stitches (much), I couldn’t help dwelling on them. The friend whose house she was at couldn’t help calling me – three times – to check and make sure Babs was doing OK.
How big is the gaping hole in my soul? Will the stitches hurt me much? Do I have to be held down before I’ll take care of it, even though I know the doctor will be gentle and loving? It’s those things that seem to be no big deal that can surprise me in the end, isn’t it? It’s the little venial sins that add up, like a credit card bill, seemingly overnight, and all of a sudden require attention. It’s the addictive little sins, the ones that happen while I’m playing with my friends and doing things I’ve done a thousand times before.
So my April resolution is to deal with one of those routine little sins, something that gets in the way of my enjoyment of life. As April flourishes with new life and spring takes hold of the world around me, I resolve to stop my complaining. My house is old and needs a lot of work – but it’s a house and it can be a castle, with enough elbow grease and TLC. My life might not work out the way I intend much of the time, but God is there, beside me, leading me (if I let him), and maybe the way I intend isn’t the best way. Complaining (even if it’s only in my own head, with that plethora of voices) doesn’t help me to focus my gaze heavenward, my feet vocation-ward. Complaining acts as a barrier between me and my God.
And, as an addendum to the March resolution of much failure, I also resolve to whack my alarm clock EVERY SINGLE MORNING.
First of all – I can’t believe they didn’t sedate her to do the stitches! Poor thing. (And I mean both of you!)
Riley split his head open on a brick hearth at a babysitter’s house when he was 15 mo old. It was right in the middle of his forehead and very deep, so it required 30 stitches in three different layers. Scary – but you’re right, kids are very resiliant. Plus, his fashionably shaggy bangs camoflage the little scar there is nicely. 😉
Hang in there!