Fit to be Tied

I hear unsolicited advice all the time, from friends, neighbors, family, in-laws, and random store clerks. I listen to it, process it, and discard as needed. Usually I discard most of what I hear. I compare notes, hear what works for other people, but no one knows my kids better than I do. If all my knowledge is barely enough to keep them in line, I don’t see what chance a stranger’s advice has.

When someone looks at my kids and says unsolicited “you might want to have someone look at that,” I tend to ignore it. I’ve probably been looking at the same blemish since it appeared, and have since learned to ignore it as nothing. Abbie has a strawberry birthmark on her forehead that probably isn’t going to disappear, something my cousin can attest to since she still has hers. All three kids constantly fall and pick up new scrapes and bruises, but it’ll heal over time. It’s nothing to worry about.

When a medical professional offers advice, I listen to that. Such was the case when Abbie’s speech therapist looked at Tory and said, “I think he’s tongue-tied. You might want to have someone look at that.” Forget my intuition and gleaned knowledge; a speech therapist has years of training and practical experience to diagnose when a child needs a couple M&M’s to start talking, and when a child needs surgery to correct a physical deformity. Abbie had a visit to the pediatrician coming up to follow-up on her ear infection; I could easily tick off the pediatrician and ask him to sneak in a look at Tory’s tongue while we’re there.

I’ve always noticed Tory’s tongue looks a little short. I’d always dismissed it since he’s never had a problem eating like a tongue-tied baby would. Plus he spent the first three weeks of his life in the NICU; if there were a problem surely one of the around the clock caregivers would have noticed it and sought treatment.

Nope. The pediatrician looked at his tongue and agreed that he looked tongue-tied. He referred us to an ENT specialist, and 24 hours later we were in his office for a closer look.* After a detailed process of filling out paperwork, playing the waiting room shuffle, and gathering his vitals, the doctor looked at his mouth and immediately proclaimed him tongue-tied. If he had seen him at birth, he would have taken care of that in a second.

Taking care of a newborn’s tongue-tie involves asking the parents to leave the room, and then letting them return to comfort their screaming and untongue-tied child. Of course Tory isn’t a newborn, he’s almost a toddler, and one that would be too adept at squirming and fighting should a doctor attempt to stick a scissor in his mouth. So Tory gets to go to the operating room in a week.

Even though he’ll have to be put under, it’s a minor surgery with minimal chance of complications. Still, this is big. Not only is it Tory’s first operation, it’s the first operation for any of our children. Everything should be fine, though. He’ll be sore for a day or two, but after that I’ll get him back on his schedule. I know how to keep him content.

* We also had him look at Ian since they’re twins, which in my mind makes him more susceptible to the same problems. The doctor said Ian’s tongue is fine, though, so his visit was just a contribution to the doctor’s boat fund. He also said they’re probably not identical twins.