Plastic Snake

Over the past three or four weeks, we have had a snake living in the master bathtub—not a real snake, mind you, but a snake all the same. Sometime last month, Papa Jeff helped Anna and Devin win plastic snakes at All Star Sports that grow to 600 percent of their original size when placed in water. The snake, fresh from its package, was nearly the length of a sheet of notebook paper. Now, it stretches a solid 3 feet. And it’s still in my bathtub. Devin grew his first, so in all fairness, we knew what we were getting into. Still.

My girls have been enthralled by the growing snake. At first, Anna was half-fascinated/half-terrified. During the snake’s early growing days, it twisted up on itself in the water, taking on a somewhat coiled appearance, which was really unsettling to her. It took Brian and me several days to convince her that the snake wouldn’t “get alive” once it was grown. She didn’t understand what we meant by “plastic” at first or how that contraindicated its ability to spring to life and bite people. In this same timeframe, Kate, perhaps sensing she should establish dominance (but more likely acting like the impulsive 18-month-old creature she is), took a hearty bite out of the snake’s side the first time she was given the opportunity to hold it. We swiped the chunk of slimy plastic out of Kate’s mouth and eventually worked past all of those things. Everyone—still-fake snake included—became friends in the end.

Early this week, Brian and I noticed that our girls apparently had been giving the snake little presents—or at the very least had been throwing random crap in the water for the sport of it. Our beautiful tub was starting to resemble a gutter by a city park. In the water with the snake were a rubber Ronald McDonald bath toy, a few squares of toilet paper, a plastic cup, a foil gum wrapper, and a sickly looking strip of press-n-seal. When did that happen?

Brian staged an intervention. The tub is now clean, and the snake is, at long last, dehydrating.

It’s these little things—these mini-eras of my girls’ childhood—that make me realize bed rest hasn’t stripped me of the opportunity to make memories with my kids or to savor this time in their young lives. I have spoken often lately of my constant need to refine and maintain my perspective in the middle of this season of life. I’ve spoken of learning to appreciate the shade of green that colors the grass beneath my feet as opposed to looking elsewhere. I’ve spoken of keeping my eyes stayed on Jesus. I’ve spoken of reminding myself that people—and not the state of my house (or hair or BMI) are what matter.

And yet, this morning, I was again in need of revisiting those lessons I’ve learned. Last night, Anna stayed up late, anxious to see her daddy once he got home from his business trip in Texas. With all the changes in routine lately, she needed those hugs from her dad. Even the best of squeezes can’t stop morning from coming too soon, though. She was tired at 7:10 a.m., and she desperately wanted just to snuggle Mom. Even though I gently fixed her hair and kissed her sweet face, wishing her a great day at school, Brian still had to carry her to the car. She reached for me with teary eyes the whole way down the hallway. Ouch.

I could see her sad little face for a long time after she left, and I started dwelling on the things I wish I could be doing for Anna and Kate instead of focusing on the things we still have. I could hear her voice as she commented about the things she and I will be able to do once “Mom is not so sick anymore.” She wants me to pick her up, play with her downstairs, drive her to gymnastics, make magnets for our fridge, and—of course—go see Cinderella’s castle (not that this last one is at all in the plans). She doesn’t whine when she talks about these things, which somehow makes it sadder to me. She just keeps hoping.

So with that backdrop, I was feeling a little weepy this morning. After a few moments of quiet, though, my always faithful God found me and reminded me of plastic snakes. As odd as it seems, I needed that. It was proof once more that He is still carrying me and that He has room enough in His arms for the rest of my crew, too, even a broken-hearted, sleepy little curly top.

In other news, the new little squirt and I hit the 24-week mark today. We are 60% of the way to his due date. Putting it in terms like that makes pregnancy seem really, really long…

24 weeks is significant for a number of reasons. Medically, it means we have now crossed the “threshold of viability.” Although it is hard to imagine a baby who is only 60% of the way cooked surviving in the outside world, it is possible at this point (however non-preferred). 24 weeks also means I’m past the point that the high risk specialist at the hospital tried to brace me for—the “what would you decide regarding resuscitation if the baby came at 23 weeks” talk that left me aching down deep and gasping for air. 24 weeks is full of hope, but it doesn’t chase away all the heartache. We still have a long way to go, and that journey is still best taken one step, one day at a time.

Because I am now at 24 weeks, I went to the hospital today to get my first of two rounds of steroid injections to provide a temporary boost to the baby (particularly to his lungs). A burning shot to the rear wasn’t fun, but I did enjoy the fresh air and change of scenery. I get to repeat the process tomorrow and will have a follow-up appointment and sonogram with the high risk doctor bright and early Monday morning. 

One step, one day at a time.

I think I may close my eyes for a few minutes before my family comes home. My stamina has, sadly, fallen to infantile levels. A two-hour outing has me feeling overstimulated and ready for a nap. Good night, all.