I am not my daughter's favorite person in the world right now. In fact, I just may be her least favorite person. She lets me hold her with distrust. She won't even let me clean her cheeks. Why? Because I am the person who, four out of four times a day, holds her down and puts drops into her eyes. The drops don't hurt, but that doesn't mean she doesn't hate it or refuse to cooperate and making the hold down necessary. (And yes, we've tried doing it when she's asleep, and inevitably, she wakes up.) The only thing she likes about the eye drops is shaking the bottle and hearing the sloshing sound inside and chewing on the cap. Which Mom won't let her do, so that's out.
I'm ready for this stuff to go away. Her eyes still get gunked up, and she still fights anytime we need to clean them so she can see out them. Her nose has begun to run again, which means her face is an all around mess. She's made it clear she doesn't trust me and doesn't want me to hold her (because, you never know, I might just be holding her to hold her down).
Don't think Nick isn't around to help. He is, two out of the four times. Apparently, though, that's two-enough-less for her to be perfectly willing to sit with him and cuddle up next to him on the couch while Daddy plays video games. After all, Daddy plays video games.
Part of me says, "Buck up. This is part of being a mom and you're going to be a mom for... EVER." How's Mr. Tumbles-and-Somersaults going to react if we ever have to do this for him? The other part of me just wants to kneel down when my daughter refuses to let me tell her I love her after a particularly bad tussle and just cry. But this, too, shall pass. And if not in seven days from beginning of treatment, believe me I'll be back in the doctor's office lickety-split for help! And pink-eye is, pink-eye. It's not tuberculosis, it's not cancer, it's not serious brain trauma. It could be oh-so-much harder. So I think I'll listen to the tougher side of me and buck up. I can be a tough mama, too.
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