Getting Old

I have to admit putting on a brave face and proudly carrying my sweet Emily into a public setting is getting old. I’m sick of smiling politely and saying, “it’s just a birthmark.” I’m losing my patience for seemingly innocent young children who stare at her and point while they whisper to their friends.

I know I am strong. I know I have faced far worse circumstances. I know there are parents who wish their biggest heartache was having to deal with other people’s judgement of their child’s unusual birthmark. But, if I am really being honest, I’m tired of putting it into perspective and tired of counting my blessings. For once, I want someone to see my daughter’s face without first seeing the large hemangioma under her beautiful right eye.

I am grateful for the people who try to be polite and never say anything. I’m irritated by the people who smile uncomfortably and say, “What a beautiful baby,” No matter how hard I try to believe them, I can’t help but wonder if they are just saying it to be nice.

Sometimes a child will look at her, stop for just a second, look up at me and then smile before running away. I look around and see if I can spot their mother. To tell them that they’ve done a good job. So the next time their child dumps out the belongings of their purse in the grocery store, they can remember that, when it matters most, their child knows how to behave.

Today, Emily stared at herself in the mirror that covers the closet door. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye while I folded laundry on top of the bed. “How big is Emily?” I asked. She raised both hands and smiled while I said, “so big.”

I folded a few towels and then said, “Dance. Dance. Dance.” Emily raised her right arm, pinched her thumb and pointer finger together like she’s trying to snap and then twisted her body to the rhythm of her imaginary music.

While I finished folding the rest of the clothes, Emily sat and stared at her image. Does she see it? I wondered. Was she going to touch the red mark in her reflection and try to wipe it off? Instead, she started dancing again. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Explaining Emily’s birthmark to strangers isn’t the only thing that is getting old. Emily is getting older too. It feels like a race against the clock. After each laser treatment, I am hoping and praying that when the redness subsides there will be enough of it gone that Emily will be able to grow up without ever having to ask, “What’s this?” or “Why do I have it?” or “Why do people stare and say mean things to me?”

I finished the laundry and picked up Emily with a resurgence of strength, patience and understanding.
I am grateful that I am the one who has to deal with the comments, the looks and the ignorance.

For now, I will sweetly smile at those who look Emily’s way. I will politely explain that Emily didn’t fall, didn’t color on her face or didn’t do anything other than be born looking a little different than everyone else. I will gladly answer every single question and continue to hope that Emily never has to answer one on her own.

“Bring it on strangers,” I say as I pick Emily up in the air and tickle her stomach with my nose. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you,” I tell Emily as she crumbles in to a giggling ball. As I lower Emily back down, she nuzzles her nose into the nape of my neck and stays there for a while.