Perfect Imperfections

When Z was just a few months old, he started suffering from repeated ear infections.  We were at the doctor no less than ten times in just four months.  I was beginning to worry that I was overreacting.  I worried that the doctor would think I was crazy.   Yet, each time we went, either one or both of his ears were infected. Finally, we were given the option to have vent tubes put in his ears.  With him being so young, we weighed the pros and cons and made the decision to go ahead. Once the tubes were in, we were only at the doctor for checkups.    

Two years later, the tubes were gone and the infections were back.  The choice was tubes again or to try and establish the cause with testing.  So, to the allergist we went.  The recommendation at that point was to start weekly shots to try and lessen the impact of Z's environment.  Again, we were charged with making a choice.  Did we subject him to weekly injections in an effort to allow him to be a "normal" kid?  Would it even work?   We did the research and decided to go ahead.  As a child who hated to be confined, the biggest issue was how traumatic these shots would be.  We nixed the idea of holding him down for the shots, and he simply hands over that week's arm for the "pinch."  To date, Z is still the best shot patient. 

And, again, a good choice.  Z can now play outside in the grass without coming back inside and scratching gashes into his legs.  To date, there have been no ear infections.  OTC allergy medicine now works to squash the worst of the problems.

A month ago, we were charged with yet another parental choice.  

Some background: when Z was two, I began to notice that his right foot was turning in.  I mentioned it during his checkup, and his pediatrician assured me it was normal.  At age three, the foot was worse.  I mentioned it again, and again was advised that it was perfectly normal and should correct itself within the next year.   As that year passed, I noticed his left foot had indeed begun to face forward.    The right foot?  Not so much.

I again began to wonder if I was overreacting.  Everything I read said that it should be fine by the time he was six.  That meant two more years of "watch and see."   

Everything I could see said we didn't need to wait that long.  While I realize that a little clumsiness is normal; the inability to run even a short distance without falling is not.  Growing pains are normal; nearly screaming in pain because your leg hurts is not.  I had already learned through my own interactions with doctors who refused to act that sometimes you must take control of your own health.

And so, I had decided that if his doctor didn't recognize what I thought was a problem with his foot, I would get another opinion.  

Again, I needn't have worried.  Z has an amazing pediatrician.  He has taken care of Z since the moment Z was pulled into the world.  I trust his judgement and his advice.  So, when I again mentioned Z's foot, Dr R decided to send us to a podiatrist.

The verdict?  Correction was needed.  I was barely able to hold back the tears.  

Tears for relief.  Tears for fear.  Tears for the unknown.

Would we again have to make the decision to allow someone to put our son to sleep and surgically correct the problem?  What would the recovery be like?  (Can you tell I am one of those "what if" people?)

Again, I needn't have worried.  The fix was simple.   Z has been fitted with his "special shoes."  They fit into his regular tennis shoes and are barely noticeable. He'll wear them for a few months, and then the most major issue will be corrected. 

With this newest addition to Z's list of "imperfections," I have come to a realization:

Moms are too hard on themselves...and each other.  I, of course, wonder what I could have done differently.  Did I wait too long? Not long enough? Is every decision I make really the best for him in the long run?

In the grand scheme of life, Z's small issues are nothing.  There are brave mothers who wake up every day to another round of tests, another set of treatments, or another day of care on a schedule.  My family trials are small in comparison; yet I still work to do my best.  Sometimes it doesn't feel like enough, especially when the advice I am given leads me to think there is more blame included than actual helpful hints.  When we should be lifting one another up, we are instead judging each other based on how well we doing are at mothering, as if this is some sort of contest.  

If we do that, no one wins.   

The reality is, there are no perfect parents and no perfect children.  But the other reality is that we are all loved perfectly.   

Perfect imperfections made whole through God's love.  

What could be better?