Janie’s heading into surgery tomorrow morning to have her tonsils and adenoids removed. I can’t say that she’s pleased, even with the knowledge that she gets to eat as much popsicles and ice cream as she wants. She insists that she’s only going to sip on ice water. (Meg has kindly offered to eat the popsicles for her.)
We check in at Seattle’s Children’s Hospital in the wee hours of the morning (thank goodness for neighbors who can easily be bribed into taking your other pajama-clad children before the sun even rises…) and will hopefully be home before noon, tonsil- and adenoid-free. We’ve stocked up on Tylenol and Motrin and I’ve already made a medicine-schedule in preparation of the craziness that is trying to keep track of when to give her which medication.
Janie’s been through three eye surgeries in her young eight-years, so I’m not too concerned about the surgery itself. Although, it doesn’t take away that horrible horrible moment when they actually put her on the bed to take her into surgery and she looks so tiny, even with legs so long we’ve started calling her “Stretch.” And then, they wheel her away and the doors swing closed behind them and there’s this pit in your stomach and visions of every tragic episode of ER and Grey’s Anatomy flash before your eyes.
Okay, maybe I’m a little concerned.