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Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Baby

The thing is, it never does get any easier. It should, but it never does. They get older and bigger, and yes, after a few times of it, you know the routine, but still, at the end of it all, you have to put your baby into someone else's hands and hope to God that person knows what he or she is doing, that everyone in there knows what they are doing and what everyone else should be doing, that they all become your eagle eyes in that room where you aren't allowed.

And so you sit tensely in the waiting room, or maybe you pace. You read the old magazines, or you watch your husband bob his leg up and down, always just the one leg, while he clenches and unclenches his hands. You clean out your purse, just to do something, anything, waiting for that moment when someone will walk out and tell you what is going on, where's your baby, how is he, how did it go.

Tomorrow we take the oldest to Brenner's at a prohibitively early hour for yet another surgery on his ears. Six? Seven? I can't remember what this makes. I just know it never does get any easier.
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