Let me tell you a story...

When Finn was born, I thought he was the most beautiful baby in the whole entire wide world. I thought his hair was perfect, his fingers were perfect, his nose and his toes were all sorts of perfect. Everything about him was perfect. Even his yellow-ish skin.  Yellow skin,you say.  A beautiful mustard yellow, I confirm.

Only it wasn't that beautiful and it certainly wasn't healthy.  Our doctors sent us home anyway, with instructions to swaddle him along with a UV light made especially for babies. We called him our Light Bright Baby and we stared at him and kissed him and had a hard time relinquishing him to the arms of friends and family that had come to visit. We took him back to the hospital twice to have his little feet pricked and the blood tested. And when the doctor told us that his little liver wasn't getting rid of the excess bilirubin fast enough and that we needed to take him to the Children's hospital immediately, I climbed painfully back into the car and cried all the way to the hospital. I pulled myself together as we walked in and got registered and tucked Finn safely in his little UV incubator with the purple light and the sweet baby sunglasses.

Not long after he was snuggled into his warm bed, about the time the lump in the back of my throat had dissipated, the doctor confirmed that he was jaundiced and dehydrated, so I had to carry him down the hall to have an IV inserted into his foot. I sat in that brightly lit room full of fun murals, with nurses in happy scrubs, and held Finn's tiny 4-day-old hand as he kicked his poor bruised feet and let his displeasure be known. I tried to talk around the lump that had reappeared in the back of my throat, but all I could do was breath deeply and hold Finn's hand and blink furiously. That is, until one of those sweet nurses looked over at me and told me it was perfectly okay for the mamas to cry, too. And then I sat in that brightly lit room with the fun murals and the nurses in the happy scrubs and cried right along with my baby until I could pick him up and sooth him.

Friday, I did not have the luxury of crying with my baby. I sat at his feet and rubbed his legs as a doctor and two hygienists strapped his squirming body down and stuck a needled in his mouth.  I squeezed his little leg as they pulled out his tiny tooth, letting him know without words that I was right next to him. I held it together during the 5 minutes the procedure took; until I could scoop him up and sooth my little boy. I breathed deeply and blinked furiously as I told Finn that his wiggly tooth was gone he could have animal crackers again. I ignored the blood on my shirt while I rubbed his back and whispered how brave he was and what a good job he did, and by the time we got to the treasure chest by the front door, his tears were gone and all he wanted to do was pick a prize and go play outside.

I waited until I was safely parked in the JC Pennys parking lot before I called my mom and lost it (sometimes you just need your mom, you know?).  Finn sat in his car seat in the back, playing happily with his new bus from the prize chest, oblivious to the break down happening in the front seat.

And then, after my mom soothed me, I pulled myself together and called Uriah to ask him what the Tooth Fairy brings baby boys who loose a tooth years before they should.

In case you're wondering, the Tooth Fairy doesn't bring little boys crap, because it'll be years before another tooth goes missing and, let's face it, he wouldn't get the concept of a tooth fairy right now anyway.

Moms and Dads, however, bring brave little boys kitchens.