Rowan’s front teeth are working their way through his gums.
He is in pain. There has not been much sleep. My arms are rarely without him as they seem to be the only place able to provide even the smallest comfort.
There have been teethers and Tylenol and tears…lots of tears.
And I can’t tell you how many times I stopped today and whispered, “Thank you for these tears.”
The last time I had a child who was cutting teeth, I was not alerted to it by a change in her temperament, appetite, or sleep pattern.
There was no excessive drool, groggy mornings, weird bowel moments, or endless whimpers.
I only knew because the nurse who was cleaning out her mouth to prevent infection told me.
I didn’t do the normal mom thing and automatically stick my finger in a drooly, pink, pouty bottom-lipped mouth to feel around.
I sanitized, put gloves on, opened the pale, still mouth of my baby girl, and felt the tops of her two bottom teeth beginning to break her dry gums.
It is so difficult to see Rowan restless, crying, unhappy and in pain while he teethes.
It is nothing compared to seeing Sylvia on life support, lying in a bed, motionless, voiceless, completely unaware she was even getting teeth.
How did I get here?
How did I get to a point in my life where I rejoice in the physical suffering of my child simply because it means he is here?
Grief and perspective are not mutually exclusive. The loss of a loved one will always evoke some sort of shift in one’s life focus. Some fight against the shift and some embrace it.
As I try every day to do the latter, I actively pray for moments that are heavy with sadness to also bear the fruit of gratefulness.
Today I spent a lot of time angry that something as trivial as teething has become so emotional for me, angry that most parents will never have more than the stereotypical “teething is rough” experience, angry that I never got to see Sylvia’s smile with those two little teeth who were fighting so hard along with the rest of her body.
But I’m also thankful.
I’m thankful for Rowan’s tears.
I’m thankful I get to stay up late and hold him.
I am thankful it is the love of my arms, and not record-setting amounts of sedative, that comfort his pain.
I am thankful I can hear his cry and that his eyes can meet mine when I tell him it is going to be okay.
I get to tell him it’s going to be okay.
I am thankful that some day soon, he will flash me the smile that God copied and pasted from the joy of his big sister in heaven, and I will get a glimpse of what I lost.
I am thankful for the tears.