*We are home, and Blythe is well on her way to good health. But I need to write about this. I have to get it out of my head.*
Blythe woke up happy and playful, peeking up at me with her huge smile and sparkling eyes.
We snuggled her in our bed, breathing in her smell and giggling as she tickled us.
Suddenly, she got sick. One moment she was laughing, and the next, she said she “had to spit”.
At first, she wanted to play between vomit sessions. She didn’t understand why I wouldn’t let her go outside. Soon, she just wanted to be held. 
Within four hours, she had stopped responding when I spoke to her.
As they drew Blythe’s blood and put in her IV line, I held her head in my hands and whispered to her that I was right there with her, that she would be well soon. She stared blankly at the wall, never acknowledging the nurses as they worked above her. She made no sound as the poked and prodded her.
She just lay there like a sack of potatoes, the sparkle long gone from her eyes.
Before too long, we were lying in Blythe’s hospital bed, waiting for her dextrose-free IV fluid to arrive. The staff scrambled to find corn free medication, tape, everything. Severe corn allergy was a complete unknown to them.
I studied my baby girl as she watched the cartoons I’d turned on for her. Occasionally, her eyes would flicker, the only indication that she was actually seeing the images on the screen.
I wanted so badly to see her smile, to hear her laugh. To see her do anything besides vomit and stare.
I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed mine back, the first response I’d gotten in hours. My baby girl was in there somewhere, fighting to come back.
Her Daddy came to see her, and she smiled the faintest smile. He held her limp body and rocked her back and forth, back and forth.
We felt so powerless to help her.
She slept easily that first night. The nurses came in frequently, but she would open her eyes for a moment and fall quickly back to sleep.
I lay in the fold-out bed next to her, waking each half hour to kiss her, to feel her, to see for myself that she was breathing, monitors be damned.
Once, twice, three times, her fever spiked.
Her body was riding a roller coaster of sickness, and we were holding on for dear life.
Just before daylight, I was sitting on her bed, caressing her leg.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked right at me.
Right into my eyes.
And spoke.
“Mommy, go to your bed. I’m sleeping.”
I cried, and silently cheered, and my heart finally broke free of fear’s terrifying grip.
My girl was coming back to me.
Category: Kids
I crept into her room by the light of the moon.
In her ear I whispered, “Don’t ever leave me, baby”.
She breathed deeply.
She sighed.
I pressed my lips upon her forehead.
Her tiny fingers wrapped around my hand.
Finally, she sleeps through the night.
Two and a half years of waking, and she sleeps.
But I wake. And I wander.
I breathe in her smell and lay my head on her pillow.
I brush my lips across hers.
I pray. Lately I don’t pray much. But over her, I do.
“Please God, be with my baby girls. Keep them safe.”
And He does.
By the light of day, they run and laugh and quarrel.
From one sunrise to the next.
And by the light of the moon, I watch them dream.
Alison’s class went on their first field trip last week.
I chaperoned, of course, because I’m an excellent parent. And also because a certain number of volunteer hours are required, and field trips knock out a whole lot of them in one shot.
Right after we got there, I overheard a parent asking the teacher to point out which kid was “Alison”.
Being the even-tempered, non-confrontational person I am, I whipped my head around so fast I got a little dizzy, and then eavesdropped.
What, wouldn’t you?
Turns out, Alison has a little bit of a fan club. Made up entirely of boys in her class. All of whom clamor to sit next to her, vote for her as best reader, and hope for some of her attention.
Yes, a fan club at the age of five.
After I confirmed with the teacher that this was, in fact, an innocent thing she had under control, I looked at my girl and cheered for her silently.
My shy, socially awkward child has a fan club. My different child. Has a fan club.
And while she probably won’t always have one – good Lord, I hope she doesn’t always have one, – I want to put this moment down in words for Alison.
Because, one day, probably deep in the throes of teen angst, she’s going to tell me no one likes her, and that she doesn’t have any friends.
When that day comes, I want her to know that without even trying, she was adored. By someone other than her mom and dad, of course, since we don’t count when it comes to that sort of thing.
Let’s just hope this whole fan club thing doesn’t go to her head.
Blythe, my sweet angel child, has always been what I like to call quirky.
I have no problem with quirky – I mean, we all have our eccentricities. She does seem to be adding to the list pretty rapidly lately, but, hey. Terrible two’s, anyone?
Recently, though, when I took Blythe to work with me and she ended up randomly freaking out *understatement*, one of the other preschool teachers asked if she has sensory integration issues.
My immediate response was, “No,” but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that some of her peculiarities might actually be signs of something more serious.
Some of them include:
She ONLY sleeps through the night when her bed is made with her pink microfiber sheet.
She HAS to wear full-bodied, cotton, footed pajamas. With a zipper. It’s that, or be nu.de.
She potty trained herself because she doesn’t like diapers (certainly not complaining, there)
She needs bottles. NEEDS. They comfort her like nothing else.
She is terrified of costumes: especially wigs and feather boas. TERRIFIED.
She HATES certain colors. Asking her to touch them is like asking her to eat poop and like it.
I called our child psychologist, on a Saturday, no less and set up an appointment to get Blythe evaluated. I wonder if she regrets giving me her cell phone number, yet?
Today, we have some good news. She doesn’t think Blythe has sensory integration problems.
The tentative diagnosis? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – OCD.
Feckity feck feck feck. ~Hey Kia, I hope you know I’m going to be all up in your grill now that both of our kids have been diagnosed. Stealing your signature “feck” is just the beginning.~
Fortunately, we already have a great relationship with our psych because of the amazing work she’s done with Alison, so I think we’re already a step ahead.
Even so, a part of me is just screaming inside, because: DUDE! Like this kid needs more issues to deal with! Aren’t the severe food allergies and the compromised immune system and the asthma and all the other things that go along with those ENOUGH, already?
*Deep breath*
It’s going to be OK. Just another bump in the road.
She’s going to be her own little version of fine.
Yes, she will. We will.
*Oops, I forgot to publish this on Tuesday. See? What a day.*
Three day weekends are great and all, but if Tuesday mornings end up being like this, I’d rather just skip the holiday, thank you very much.
Warning! Bitch session begins in 3…2…1:
Last night I had a little crying bout, probably because I *ahem* went off my meds without permission and felt the need to keep Jeremy up until midnight talking about my emotional issues. He was great about it, truly. And when he started snoring I stopped talking. Eventually.
This morning my alarm *somehow* got shut off and I slept, all cozy and warm, until 15 minutes after the kids were supposed to be up. Why is it they’re up at 5 am on Saturday, but they sleep in on weekdays when I need them to get me out of bed on time?
I put in a movie and threw food at them so that I could hop in the shower. Of course I had to shave because it’s a teaching day for me, which means a skirt. And no, I won’t go hairy just because they’re preschoolers. They have a knack for not only noticing things like hairy legs and armpits, but also for asking questions about them.
Imagine this: “Hey Teacha? Why you legs got prickles? My mommy doesn’t got those, but my daddy does. Teacha, are you a boy?” Only 20 times and with a lot more snot.
Finally washed and shaved, I was getting dressed when Alison announced that Blythe pooped. She’s potty trained, so I wasn’t too worried until Blythe came in with her little sad face and said, “I had uh assident, mommy” and pointed at the poop all down her leg.
Clean clean clean… wipe wipe wipe.
And where did she poop? On the floor of her room, naturally. Glance at the clock. Holy crap, cleancleanclean-wipewipewipe.
Alison wanted her hair pink today, so I coated her ponytail with that spray on stuff for Halloween, because I am just the coolest mom on the planet. Of course once we arrived at school, Alison realized other kids were going to *gasp* notice! And talk to her! Because she had pink hair!
So I had to clean it off, and it’s not like we were early or even on time at that point.
I arrived at work only a couple of minutes late, and only a little bedraggled, and ready to face the day. Until now I’ve somehow avoided having to take the entire 2 year old class to the bathroom for a potty break, but, hey! today was as good a day as any to break me in.
Let me just say, dealing with my own kids’ poop is one thing – but other kids? I seriously had a hard time not gagging. Multiple wet pants, lots of hand washing, and I accidentally left one kid behind when we went back to class.
All three of my classes today were out of freaking control. What is it about 3 day weekends that makes kids act like complete maniacs?
Hmmmm. Maybe it’s because their mom put on a movie and threw random food at them this morning, so that she could take a shower….