But all I can do now is wait.
It's one of the most excruciating parts of motherhood: the wait. The wait for the medicine to kick in to cool her down. The wait to see if this is simply some annoying virus that will pass. The wait to see if it’s something more dangerous. The wait to call the pediatrician until my gut or mother overrides my insecurity – I’ve been through many fevers before, “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say to myself. I dial anyway. The wait for the nurse’s return call when I’m berating myself for not bringing her in...
As parents we do a lot of waiting. We wait with great anticipation, with fear, with excitement, with exhaustion, with hope, and with love. We wait for moments to come, for the big milestones and the small ones, for the recitals and the performances, for the hugs and the kisses, for the “I love you, Mom” and “I love you, Dad.” We wait and hope endlessly for the good news. And we wait in absolute worry and angst for the bad news.
Yet, the hardest wait of all is the wait to know if your kiddo is gonna be OK. This never-ending and ever present wait lives deeply and powerfully within each cell of your body. This is the wait that keeps you up all night with your sick child. It is the wait that has brought to your knees in prayer asking someone you never before believed to exist to help your child. It is the wait that constantly reminds you, “I am because you are.” It is the wait that will keep you waiting the rest of your life. It’s the hardest and most beautiful wait there is.