Lump

A few posts ago, I mentioned a special project I'm working on. The project will be ready to view in about another week, but here is a little something related to it ...

So, I was running errands for the house last week (something I do every day now), and decided it was time to finally get the tires balanced on my car. I had to, because any time I went past 65 miles an hour (and that's the bare minimum in Texas), my steering wheel started to rattle. Anyway, there I was at the tire shop trying to keep Rain entertained without bothering the other customers.

Rain wanted to walk everywhere and see everyone. Most people are cool with a toddler standing 2 feet away and just staring (they may smile and whatnot), but others decidedly don't want children even looking at them. So, I had to trail her the whole time making apologies. Even when I let her play with her toy puppy (a singing dog that I loathe & love, depending on my patience for repetition that day), she sat for a minute before tossing the thing aside. Out of desperation, I let her sit on my lap & empty out her diaper bag, something she thoroughly enjoys.

Her hairbrush was there, so I decided to give her hair a once-over. Her back was towards me, and I hoped the soft brushing would distract her.

It was me who would needed the distracting. Behind Rain's ear, on her skull, was a lump. A hard lump the size of a dime. I was surprised, and worse, could tell the thing wasn't a bruise or temporary injury of any sort. I checked the rest of her head for similar lumps, but there was only the one. I waited, oh, about 2 seconds before calling Rain's doctor while mumbling, "What is it? What is it?"

I think every newbie parent has had the moment where part of your inner voice says, "Hey, calm down. Be a mom and settle yourself down before you freak your kid out, too." The other part of your inner voice, the completely panic-stricken side, wants to scream and call your mommy. The fear sets in quickly, because it was already there. We've all had lifetime experiences with this: a child-like trust that a thing, a person, or a relationship is forever, and bam! It's forcefully taken away, and we never want to be that foolish again. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was a sucker, right?

Forget Darwin. This isn't about wanting a species to continue. If that was the case, I'd have 10 kids (wow, I can hear Tim choking on his coffee from here). Every kid, every single one, is irreplaceable, and from the moment a baby comes home from the hospital, we have a whispered terror that he or she, too, will be something taken away. Oh, sure, the rational side tells us our children will be fine and outlive us by many years, but what if? What if??

OK, I'm going to stop now. I'm working myself up all over again. I called the doctor's office, and a nurse told me, "If it gets bigger, call us." What? Lady, I'm not talking about my iguana, I'm talking about my kid!

Ugh.

I'm going to continue to follow her advice for 1 more week, then I'm succumbing to the inner voice whose advice begins with, "Contact the American Academy of Pediatrics ..."