Her Eyes

They say that she has no idea what is going on. She is too small to realize the seriousness of the situation. They say that babies are difficult because they can’t tell you what’s wrong. “They” don’t know my baby. She tells me everything I need to know in her eyes.

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Her eyes tell me when she is hurting and her eyes tell me when she is happy.

When they change her dressing on her incision where a piece of the monster was taken for the biopsy, she tells me that it hurts. And when they put that Band-Aid over the incision, her eyes tells the nurse thank you.

When the pain medicine wears off and the monster is beating on her belly, she tells me that she needs more.

When the male doctors come in, she stairs through me to tell me she wants me to hold her. So I do. Her eyes tell me that now she feels safe.

When the team of female doctors comes in, she smiles with her eyes to say “party time!” So I let her play with her friends.

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And when she decided that she can hold the bottle all by herself, she tells me, “rest Mommy, I got this,” with her eyes.

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God’s got this.