Today was Shelby's last day of winter break. I was prepared for the deluge of, “Can I call a friend to play?” but I wasn't prepared for the conversation that took place the minute she came down wanting breakfast. While getting her drink from the fridge, she saw the letter from the insurance company approving a cochlear implant.

“Mom, are you having that ear thing done?”

<that felt like a slap across the face coming out of nowhere> “Well, I am scheduled for July,” I replied wondering what's coming.

<She got emotional - no surprise for her> <That's going to make you different. I don't want anything to be different.”

“Make me different, how?” I asked.

“You'll be able to hear.”

“No, I won't. I mean, I'll still have to lipread and all. It won't make me hear like you can. Besides, you, Dad, and your brother can hear. Why not me?”

“Because it's different. I want things to stay the same,> she weeps.”

<searching my prego brain for examples of change> “We moved from Washington, DC to Texas.” <I knew that was a bad example because she was only 18 months when we moved, which is exactly what she said -- that she didn't remember> “Your brother's arrival was another change.”

“Yeah, and he's a pain. He gets all the attention.”

“A different kind of attention... not always good because he gets in more trouble than you do. Besides, he can't do some things, yet. When he was born, you were at the age where you could do most of the basics yourself. We have another change coming soon with the baby.”

“Exactly! I'm going to be left out with Lane and the baby getting all the attention.”

“Shelby. You're always important to the family. You'll be busy with school, after-school activities, and all that. We go to your events. It's a different kind of attention. We spend time with you. We play games with you, something we can't do with Lane and the baby just yet.”

End of scene. Break for breakfast. Run to computer and report conversation to hubby.