Bath Time

I am having a dark day. There really isn't any true reason for it. Hannah's little friend Scarlett made it out of her second brain surgery and her tumor is gone. Hannah has found new interest in nursing and may actually get the hang of it. Emily is being an adorable and amazingly patient toddler. Today should be a great day. But I can't help but fight back tears. I think it comes from bath time.
Yes, bath time. Bath time is what strains my heart and teeters me on the brink of gloom and sadness. Why? Because about once every other week Hannah is healthy enough and stable enough to take off her oxygen while she bathes. I take off her tender grips and for even a few minutes, she looks like a normal, healthy baby. I snap pictures of my tubeless baby like a visitor at Disneyland. I gaze at her and see her full beauty, not hidden by the mask of her weak lungs. I see her as God made her, perfect. But then the hard part comes, getting her back into her "outfit". I have to put the stickers that she hates back on her cheeks. I have to hold her head down so that she can't faille to avoid them. She cries. I cry. We both cry together. I hook her back up to her oxygen and we have to face our reality again. Things aren't normal. They aren't going to be normal for a long time. Sometimes I look around and wonder what I did to push my path in this direction. Is it karma? Did God get distracted by some epic disaster when He was creating her tiny body? Did I run over a kitten in a past life?  And then Hannah lets out a joyful squeal as Emily runs around the corner to say hi to her little sister. I wouldn't trade that moment for anything. Suddenly, even though things aren't normal, they are perfect. And maybe today won't be so bad after all.