Our First Overnight Stay in the Hospital

Update: Thank you all SO much for the loving and supportive comments for our boy. I was very tired and emotional when writing this post and we appreciate you being here to read it!!

It’s currently 9p and I am trying to keep my eyes open as I sit next to our son, who very much doesn’t have his eyes open and is sound asleep on the 3rd floor of the hospital we’ve been going to for the last year and a half.

I have lost count of just how many times we’ve been to the hospital for Riah. Those are words I never thought I would write when I used to think of our someday kids. I don’t mean to sound like I am pining for your pity, because thankfully, and I truly mean thankfully, all of the visits have been fine and well and we’re handling his epilepsy as best as possible and taking all of the necessary steps so that he hopefully grows out of it in a few years. 

What I mean is, you can never predict what the future holds for you and the ones you love. That’s part of what makes life so exciting (and scary). So I never could have predicted with 100% certainty, especially since he isn’t biologically ours, that our son would have epilepsy. There were certain hereditary signs, but who could know for sure? 

We are spending the night for the first time at the hospital to do a sleep study and see how things are progressing. He is currently hooked up to 38 wires, with tape across his face and in his hair, and a big white bandage all over his head to hold everything in place. He is sleeping under a thin blanket. I let him pick out his favorite stuffed animal and we brought it with us, but our boy was so tired after they hooked him up that he was falling asleep before the doctor was even finished putting the wires on him. 

There was a moment, though, when he was told to sit up so the doctor could patch his head and face with long, brightly-colored wires that looked more like toys than vital instruments to measure one’s sleeping patterns, where he was staring at me with such a longing to lay his head on the pillow; to rest and to fall asleep. I felt my heart twist and turn as I stood watching the doctor we just met lace him up with one toy-like string after another. I felt, as I always do when he is in the hands of doctors and nurses, helpless. I wanted so badly to lay him down and give him the rest he so desperately needs. His eyes were heavy, and my heart was, too.

Riah requires more sleep than our other two children. He always has. His brother and sister are able to function and go all day without a nap (much to our surprise) but Riah is so noticeably out of sorts when he doesn’t take one during the day. His whole vibe is off and he’s much more moody, sensitive, and angry. If you have young kids or have been around them for any amount of time, does this sound familiar? 

I hate that he has to have all of these tests done. I hate that he has to drink medicine twice a day that tastes disgusting. I hate that he is five years old and has already had more lab work done than I have in my entire life. And I hate that we’re not home with his father and his brother and sister, on this cold December night.

But you know what I don’t hate? The chance that he will grow up without his epilepsy getting worse, or better yet, that he might grow up with no epilepsy at all. I also don’t hate that he is so good with needles and pokes, because I have to look away when they do it to him (and to me). I don’t hate that he is so brave and strong when it comes to this stuff, and that the medical staff are always telling him how wonderful he is doing. I don’t hate that he never complains about any of it: he rolls with the punches and keeps going. I don’t hate that everyone we meet with has been extremely nice, sensitive and patient. We were late getting here tonight because of traffic and they kept telling me it was alright. And you know what? I think it will be.

It’s later now, and he’s been asleep for a while. We will get to leave at 4:30a and make the long drive back home to our house with the 100 year old floors and the laundry that needs to be folded on the couch, and the dogs that need to take their medicine twice a day, and the litter box that needs to be changed, and a brother who needs help tying his shoes and a sister who wants to eat only Mac n’ cheese, and a husband who texted me after we got here saying “Everyone misses you,” which put the biggest smile on my face. And as I adjust and try to make this recliner next to his bed more comfortable than it is, I can’t help but feel grateful for our boy and everything that makes him, him. 

And also for the fact that he is sound asleep, finally getting that rest he wanted, and the rest he so desperately needs.

Do We Tell Our Kids Santa Isn't Real?

Do we keep up the lie to satisfy their child-sense of wonder?

PJ and I were driving the other day when he turned and looked at me and said, “I really don’t like the idea of lying to them about Santa.” The funny thing is, just the day before, I was thinking the exact same thing. Why do we perpetuate this lie to our children, when it doesn’t really and truly serve anyone? Wouldn’t they be just as okay knowing Santa isn’t real?

I know so much of the magic of the holidays when you’re young is believing Santa Claus is real and that he will come down the chimney and shower your home with presents on Christmas. I know that leaving milk and cookies out is something I always looked forward to, and singing songs about the big guy with the white beard and the red hat were always my favorite Christmas carols. What I don’t know, however, is how old I was when I stopped believing in him.

I think a part of me knew for a while before I finally accepted that he was a myth; a made-up, mystical man that serves as the inspiration and main plot point for thousands of movies and TV shows. But that’s the thing about TV: everything looks magical on the big screen, and so much less magical in real life. So maybe we fear the holidays won’t be as magical for our kids if they know Santa isn’t real. Is that why we keep up the lie?

Another thing is, and probably the biggest reason why we don’t tell our kids, is we don’t want to spoil it for any other kids in their class. Can you imagine how mortifying it would be if our child was the one to ruin Christmas for everyone else? Worst-case scenario. So for now, in the spirit of preserving childhood innocence, we will keep up the charade of Santa Claus and all the joy and mystique he brings.

Our middle son, Riah, has already been questioning his validity lately. I thought for sure it would be our oldest, but I think he enjoys believing in all the things right now. The truth is, I don’t think any of our kids would mind if we told them he isn’t real. I think they would all feel a sense of privilege knowing the truth, like they’re in on this huge, giant secret that no one else knows. I honestly think they would handle the news well and that there wouldn’t be any pushback. I could be wrong, but that’s what I’m thinking would be the case.

However, I would be lying if I said we haven’t used Santa Claus as a motivator for our kids to act accordingly. I know, I know. Not our proudest moments (we’re still learning!!), but it’s the truth, even if it’s technically frowned upon. In this article on Fatherly.com, Psychologist and parenting expert Dr. Justin Coulson explains, “When we use a coercive, manipulative strategy to get our kids to behave, we are relying on extrinsic contingencies by telling them to be good in order to get what they want. And once that motivation is gone, how do we know they’ll still feel compelled to behave? It’s morally, ethically, and scientifically dubious at best.”

Doesn’t that make so much sense? Dr. Coulson goes on to give his argument for being brutally honest with kids about Santa Claus: “Christmas is going to be exciting and fun and enjoyable whether kids know the truth about Santa or not. In the same way that I can watch a movie that I know is complete fiction and still find the movie tremendously enthralling, our children can know the truth about Santa and still find Christmas every bit as exciting.”

So there you have it. For now, we will keep up the Santa Claus schtick until we decide to tell them the truth. What we won’t be doing, however, is using Santa as a manipulative tool, because that’s good for no one in the long run. Maybe by next Christmas we’ll be sharing how well they took it, how much more magical the season is for them now that they know the truth.

Either way, happy holidays to believers and non-believes alike!

The Struggles of Being a 6 Year Old

A few moments ago, as Allan (our 6 year old) was trying to solve a cube, he shared with me his current frustrations:

Him: Have you ever solved a cube before?

Me: Nope!

Him: I am trying to solve this cube but my brain is still just thinking about dinosaurs. I don’t know why my brain is thinking about dinosaurs but it just is. Brain, please stop thinking about dinosaurs! Knock it out!

My favorite part of this whole ordeal is that he was 100% serious. He was honestly and truly telling his brain to stop thinking about dinosaurs so he could concentrate on the task at hand. And don’t get me started on his honesty! His candidness was so cute and innocent and funny to me. Allan, more so than the other two right now, is really into telling us his every thought lately, much to our enjoyment, of course.

I want to remember these little sayings forever.