We were walking home from barnehage today, and the wind was blowing so hard it almost blew the hood of your rainsuit off your head. Convinced the wind doesn’t blow the trees, but that the trees actually make the wind, you shouted:
“Trees! Stop winding me!” You stamped your foot in frustration, and pointed at the nearest birch. “No, trees! Stop it! You’re going to blow my hat off!”
Last night you slept 12 and a half hours straight. This is almost unheard of when you’re at home with us – it usually only happens when you stay with Farmor. But you have had a massive 24 hours, and you obviously needed it. However, since you’ve had trouble breathing and so on, when I woke up at 7.30am and hadn’t heard a peep from you, I can’t say I wasn’t a little concerned. I crept out of bed, just with the idea of poking my head into your room to make sure you were okay. You must have heard the floor creak, because you started stirring the moment I crossed the den.
“Mummy?” Your voice was vague, and I think you were still half-asleep.
I tip-toed in and sat on your bed. You smiled, stretched and rubbed your eyes, asking me if it was morning. I told you it was. You sat bolt upright.
“Hooray!”
We hugged.
“I sleep-imagined I was washing my new red car! And then I sleep-imagined that I was playing with the stars, and the fire-spitting dragon put everything on fire, but then the brannbil dragon came and spit water on the fire and put it out.”
“Did you dream all that? Wow.”
“Yeah, I sleep-dreamed I played with my horses and the stars and my dragon.”
“Your dreams sound fantastic.”
“Yeah. Can we go wake up Daddy now?”
Last night you had your second major asthma attack, and we had to drive you to emergency at 1.30 in the morning. You were so excited to go to the hospital, and were in high spirits all the way into the examination room, after which you – understandably – clammed up and clamped onto me like a baby koala. They gave you two doses of adrenaline with a nebuliser, which made you scream like a banshee, and after your lungs didn’t respond to that, they packed us off to Drammen to the paediatric centre. There they gave you two doses of ventoline with a nebuliser (which you hated, but were happily enough distracted by watching funny cat videos on YouTube) and did a few tests, one of which required you to wear anaesthetic patches on your inner elbows in preparation for drawing blood an hour later. Despite us all being extremely tired, and you being freaked out by the patches on your arms, you were cheery and so well-behaved we were amazed at your patience. Each time a doctor or nurse would come in to do a test or check you over, or talk to us, you’d ask if you could go home now, and we had to keep telling you, “Not yet. We hope we can go home soon, but not yet.” You weren’t happy to hear it, but accepted the news with only a few little pouts and pleas.
When two nurses came to take your blood, you fought and screamed like a little wild cat. You’re a lot stronger than we ever knew! But when you realised you couldn’t fight off four adults, you just sat on my lap and screamed. My heart tore at every cry, but we had to let them take your blood so they could see if you had any infections. I hated having to hold you in place like that, but I had to. They told you it wouldn’t take long, but you were terrified and began to make low, guttural roaring sounds that had your dad and me looking at each other in real fear. I thought you were so terrified that you had regressed in some way—that you had reverted to a sort of feral state. Seconds later, it was all over and they rushed your blood away for testing.
After the nurses left, you told us what had happened:
“Mummy, I was a robot dinosaur. I was so scared, but I roared and roared and scared the mean doctors away!”
Daddy and I both had to hide our tears of pain and pride from you so you wouldn’t get more upset. You’re amazing. Even under all that fear and panic, you found a way to save yourself from your bad situation, and showed us the very definition of bravery. I will never forget this night.
When you got home from the cabin, you sat up on the coffee table to show me where you’d hurt your knee. You told me it was a bruise.
“I can’t see any bruises,” I said, “but you have a little scratch here.”
“Yes. But when I go to sleep, I will wake up and it will be hilled.”
“That’s right,” I said. “When you rest your body, your scratch will start to heal and it will be gone in a couple of days.”
“And then I won’t have a scrat anymore on my knee.”
“I can’t have a shower while my leg hurts.”
This evening you called out to your daddy to come and look. He came in from the kitchen to find you standing on your head on the rocking chair. You said, “This is your present, Daddy.”
Your dad took you to the cabin for the weekend so I could have some downtime. I spent five hours cleaning the house, and another couple mowing the lawn. But that’s not the point. You and your dad had a great time with Farmor down at the cabin. You played in your paddling pool, and relaxed on the deck:
We were walking home from barnehage and you said, “Mummy, I was a superhero when I…when I was a superhero. And I will be a superhero and I will rescue you!”
I said, “Will you? Thanks!”
“Yes! I will put on my superhero coat on my back.”
“You mean your cape?”
“Yes, my superhero coach, and I will fly up into the sky and I will rescue everyone.”
Tonight when I was putting you to bed, you asked me if I was still sad about Great Papa. I said yes. You said:
“It’s okay, Mummy. It’s okay that you’re sad about Great Papa diving. Because he will go to sleep and when he wakes up you can be happy again.”
Today your barnehage was closed for a planning day, and your daddy is still away working up north, so it was just you and me this morning. We played “muddy muddy” on the spare quilt on the floor in the den (which involves bunching up the quilt into a pile, flopping down on top of it, then wriggling around while shouting Muddy Muddy Muddy!), “sharky boat” on our bed (you saved me from the sharks – thanks!) and then we talked to Grandma on Skype. Auntie Amy dropped in to Grandma’s house towards the end of the call, and so you talked to Kevin for a bit, delighting in telling him at least nine times that you saw Sushi licking her bottom.
Then we went to your room to get dressed, and while we were playing around, me lying on my stomach on the floor, you jumped on my back and yelled, Get up, Pig! I wasn’t very impressed, even though I know you didn’t mean it the way older people mean it. It’s my own fault, I suppose, for telling you earlier in the week what a piggy back ride is.
Then, about five minutes ago, Farfar came to pick you up to take you to feed the ducks, so I can get some work done. You gave me such a look of betrayal when you saw him, because you knew it meant he was here to take you away. You always have a wonderful time there, but you find leaving home, especially when I’m here, really hard. It’s both lovely and heartbreaking at the same time. As the car pulled away, you looked out the window at me with your huge puppy eyes and trembling chin. I smiled, blew you a kiss and waved, calling out, I’ll see you soon! I love you!
Then I came inside, shut the door, and cried. I miss you already.