There Was a Little Girl Who Had a Little Curl...

...and OH how much I love her!

This is Dee. The Wee Miss. Missy Moo.  She was born with a unilateral incomplete cleft in her lip. She looked like this:

Beautiful, right?? Although the cleft was relatively minor as far as clefts go, I was told that she likely wouldn't nurse well and would require special bottles, that she may be susceptible to ear infections, that her speech may be delayed. In true Missy Moo fashion, she refused to listen and did things her own way: none of those things affected her. She nursed until she was 13 months old, started talking as soon as she figured out she could make noises and, at 4 years and 8 months old, has never had an ear infection (*knock on wood*).

We were taken under the wing of the Cleft Palate Team at the IWK Children's Hospital in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Treatment includes at least three surgeries: one when she was 4 months old, one at 4 years old, and another at approximately seven years old, as well as being followed yearly by their ENT, dentists, orthodontists, consultations with speech language pathology, their pediatricians, etc. Missy Moo has a world-renowned surgeon. She's in the best hands there, to say the very least.

After her lip repair at 4 months old (I can't seem to find the pictures), I was told that she likely wouldn't want to nurse and might have to move to bottles. She was nursing and smiling and laughing within an hour of waking in recover. I knew then that she was really something special, but you know parents...we worry.

I knew this next surgery was coming. In fact, I spent the last year worrying about it: how she would do, would she be scared, would it change how she sees herself. When we got the call two weeks ago, I was equally relieved and anxious to finally get it over with.



Everyone knows that the second gown is to be worn as a princess cape.

What a waste of my time, worrying about her! Before we left for Halifax, I set out the entire 6 day itinerary, including our off-days to be spent at museums and candy stores. When I asked if she had any questions or concerns, she was worried that the pre-op blood work would hurt, but no concerns about anything else.

She rocked her pre-op appointments (including the blood work) and, as we sat in the lab waiting for her name to be called, she whispered in my ear, "Mommy? Why do I need surgery?". I knew this question was coming, and I prepared myself for it. We don't talk about her cleft at all. Not because we want to hide it from her, but because it's just a non-issue.

Me: You need surgery because when you were a tiny baby in my tummy, your body was so busy growing your brain to make you so smart, and your heart to make you so friendly, and your eyes to make them so blue, your lip didn't grow together quite like mine did, and so you were born with a cleft lip. Dr Surgeon is just going to do what's called a 'revision' to make your lip look like mine.

Missy Moo: What's a cleft lip?

Me: A cleft lip just means that your lip didn't quite grow all the way together. [Notice how I take great pains to avoid words like 'fix', 'wrong', ...anything that makes it sound like she's anything less than perfect. Over thinking much?]

Missy Moo: Can we get some ice cream later?



They love each other.

Even though she was worried about the blood work hurting, she did awesome! She sat on my lap, held her arm still like I showed her and did awesome! She whimpered during it but, as soon as she saw the nurse draw a happy face and a heart on her band aid, she was over it, and declared the process 'SO COOL!'.

Pre-surgery cuddle.

Finally, it was surgery time. She was allowed to take her favourite toy, Pinky Pie, back into the OR with her, and the nurses gave it a special hospital bracelet with Pinky Pie's name on it so she wouldn't get lost. The nurse misheard Pinky Pie's name, and Missy Moo took one look at the bracelet and yelled "Her name is Pinky PIE, not Pinky POO! Dis needs to be done over.", and held the pony out with her little foot tapping the floor in typical Moo fashion...Any fears I had that she was nervous were squelched.

Scooby-Dooby-Doo time.

 Sitting in the family waiting room watching food shows on CBC TV, it was a strange feeling. As each child eventually awoke in the recovery room, you could hear their cries and every parent would stiffen waiting for the phone call that would tell them if it was their child. When the phone finally rang for us, I was caught off guard - there was no accompanying cry.

We walked back to see her, Handsome Hubby carrying the balloon he and The Wee Little Man picked out for her.  It was a somber march for Handsome and I - the last time we made this journey, we both sobbed over her tiny baby body and the IV in her scalp. This time, as soon as she saw us, she yelled "A RAINBOW DASH BALLOON FOR ME?!"....and that was that. I had to chuckle - here she was no doubt in pain and she was more concerned about a balloon than seeing us.

The rest of her recovery has been exactly the same: She's taken everything in stride and just has an absolutely beautiful view of the world, an amazing little spirit...I'm just constantly in awe of her.

She was feeling better after a little something to eat (tomato soup, yogurt, ice cream - which she declared to be 'Da best soup EVAH!'), and started walking around toting her IV pole behind her. As Handsome and I were wrangling The Littlest Lord (who was, no doubt, feeling a little lost in the shuffle), she snuck into the bathroom to peek in the mirror at herself. When I saw her come out, my stomach dropped a little: would she think she was ugly or scary looking? She looked at me, and said "Mommy? This [indicating her entire face] is SOOPAH COLOURFUL!"

LOVE her!

"Mommy! I can see our house from here!"

She woke up the next morning, full of spunk and back to her old self. When her peepers opened she said to me, "Mommy, I fink I'll be a nurse when I grow up, so I can help kids just like me."

As soon as the activity room opened at 9:30 am, she was down there (without her IV pole!) and tried out every single toy and activity, and chatted the ear off of everyone in there! The activity room is monitored by medically trained volunteers, so the kids can be supervised while the parents take a break. Missy Moo all but kicked me out, saying "You go. Dey'll look after me."

The only time the tears fell was when we were leaving the hospital, and the only way I could calm her down was to remind her that we had to come back to have her stitches taken out.

Missy Moo is awesome. She's strong, she's confident, she's sensitive and caring, and she sees the world with love in her eyes. I want to be just like her when I grow up.