Hey baby girl,
When you were first born you were having a tough time eating. One of the doctors in the hospital, as well as a lactation specialist your mom went to see recommended we have your tongue clipped. Well not actually your tongue, but that piece of skin underneath your tongue.
In some cases that strip of skin is longer, stopping the baby from sticking its tongue out; which both prevents them from latching on during breast feeding, and making a proper taunting face. We were told it could correct itself, or possibly you’d have to have the procedure done when you’re older if you were having problems with speech.
We held off on making any decisions until we talked with your doctor, who we absolutely love. Much as I suspected, this was an optional procedure which he thought was currently being overprescribed. We opted not to do it, and in time you mastered breast feeding, bottle feeding, and you’re currently following in your brother’s foot steps by attempting to concur the spoon before 5 months of age.
The only medical concern we really had, was your eye. Nearly from the first day you were born, your right eye would get all goopy, and often time in the morning it would be completely crusted shut. You’d scream every morning as we’d have to clean your eye with a warm rag, and it seemed to be getting worse with each passing day. The doctor told us this was the result of a clogged tear duct, which would fix itself in time when your tears came in. If we wanted it cleared out sooner, we had the option of taking you to a specialist to perform a minor operation to unclog it. We weren’t interested, instead waiting on nature to take its course.
Around the time we brought you home from the hospital, your brother brought a stethoscope home from daycare. He began proclaiming he had a medical degree and began listing to everyone’s heart beat, immediately delivering bad news across the map, “You’re sssick,” he’d shout with glee.
One night he placed the stethoscope on your chest, then looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. He slowly cocked his head back, then quickly thrust it forward, delivering a devastating head butt to your dome. You instantly burst into tear-less hysterics.
Nearly four months later, as we does every night, your brother emerged from the bathtub and put on his bear towel (a brown towel with a hood and ears). Then, as is his routine, he instructs whichever parent who gave him the bath that he would like to go scare the other parent by growling like a bear. On this particular night I was holding you on the couch feeding you a bottle, when your mom and Arlo walked into the room.
“RRAAAAARRRRRR,” called out your brother, in an especially loud growl.
You instantly started wailing, and as I stood up to cuddle and comfort you, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—a tear, rolling down your cheek. The next morning, your goopy eye was gone.
A few nights ago, the doctor came to see you again. He held his pretend stethoscope to your chest, and with a sheepish grin, he said, “She’s healthy.” Then he added, “I love Elliott.”
What can I say, modern medicine is amazing.