Category Archives: Tough times

Nightmares

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You’ve been doing so well with sleeping all night in your bed lately. We were up to a record of nine nights straight when last night you had a bad dream and ended up in our bed.

Tonight while you were in the bath, I asked you about it. You said you dreamed your best friend didn’t want to play with you.

Me: But you know she really loves you. Bad dreams are just our brains’ way of helping us think through our problems and worries.

You: So . . . bad dreams are good!

Me: Yeah, I guess in a way they are.

You [smiling]: I love bad dreams! They’re so small, I want to protect them. They’re so cute!

First fibs

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You threw a ball into my office yesterday and I told you never to do it again because it might break my computer. You said, “But your computer didn’t get broken.”

I told you it could have.

You said, “But I didn’t throw the ball in your office, Mummy.”

I became exasperated at this point and said, “I SAW you do it, Ella!”

You mumbled something and your lip started trembling. I knelt down and asked you to repeat what you’d said because I didn’t hear.

You burst into tears and cried, “When you get mad, I get SAAAAAD!”

Luckily you were on your way out the door with Daddy to go swimming, so you couldn’t see that I was crying too. I hate it when you cry – it breaks my heart every time. But mummies have to be firm.

Scary

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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.

Aside

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.”

 

Puppy eyes

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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.