toddlerspit

 Eric and I had just wrapped up an episode from Season 6 of The Sopranos–which I am watching now solely for narrative closure, and not because I’m really enjoying it anymore–and I was doing dishes while Eric turned out lights and locked doors.  All of a sudden, over Addie’s monitor, came the clarion call of croup:  hoarse, whooping sobs and asthmatic wheezes.  Eric ran upstairs to get Addie and brought her down.  I took her into the airplane-sized bathroom on our first floor, ran the hot shower full blast, and read her stories from her favorite book until her breathing had regularized, then Eric took her outside for a few minutes.  The hot and cold blasts broke the stridor somewhat, and I was able to put her back to bed, still wheezy and coughing but calm enough to rest.

Addie had croup for the first time a year ago, and because we didn’t know what was going on and it was a really bad spell, we took her to the E.R.  This was a huge mistake, not because the croup wasn’t serious, but because it’s worsened by panic and upset, and Addie did not take kindly to being looked at by all sorts of strange doctors and nurses in the middle of the night.  The x-rays of her chest were also extremely traumatic for her (and the rest of us, actually).  She’s had two croup spells since, and both times we decided to just ride it out at home, trusting the steam from the shower and the cold night air to break the stridor, and using light touch massage, reading books, and singing songs to keep her calm.  Both times it has worked.  Having some confidence and experience has helped us not to over-react.

At the same time, after I put her to bed I’m always a little terrified.  What if she stops breathing in her sleep?  What if it worsens quickly, too quickly for us to react, and we couldn’t help her in time?  Croup is terrifying in this way–Addie’s lips turn blue because she’s not getting enough oxygen, and she gets really disoriented.  Addie is a very verbal kid, and last night when I asked her what kind of juice she wanted–orange or apple–she responded “ABC.”  This sounds kind of funny, but it’s so out of character for her that it just ends up being scary.  So, even though she was in bed, calmly sleeping, her rattly breathing finally a little more even, I wasn’t able to sleep for some time, listening through the monitor for her breath, her coughs, her stirrings.

We have no doubt all of this is related–the drool, the snot, the croup, the snoring, the stumbling.  I hope the CAT scan results take us a step closer to understanding how we can help Addie get better, feel better.  I just want her to be a healthy, happy kid.

Holy God. It is snowing again. Will it ever stop? The weather reminds me of this movie they made us watch in elementary school, about a group of kids in the future or on another planet where it rained constantly.  They were never allowed to go outside.  Then, one day, miraculously, the rain stopped for a few minutes, and they all went outside, where flowers had instantly bloomed, and they played in a beautiful green field until it started dumping again.  What the hell did they make us watch that movie for?  I must be forgetting something.  Anyway, my point is this:  we are trapped in some sort of snow-filled purgatory.

The only thing that makes it not so bad is that our floors LOOK AMAZING.  Holy crap, do they look good.  I just keep staring, admiring them.  Addie threw her stuffed bear on them yesterday and I dove for it, trying to catch hit before it hit the new floors.  “Nooooooo….” Slow motion, the whole bit.  I’m crazy.

When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong.  I was wrong.  Addie was able to sit still for her CAT scan today.  She went through the tube like such a big girl, licking her lips and drooling the whole time, but staying pretty darned still.  My big girl.  So glad we didn’t have to get the anesthesia.  We get the results from the test Monday, because doctors don’t want to spoil us all by giving us information immediately, even when they have it.  Right there.  In front of them.

We are wondering what will be different after (if) she gets the surgery.  Maybe no more drool spots, like the sweet one you see in the picture above (that’s orange playdough she’s stirring, by the way).  Maybe she’ll be able to taste food better, sleep better, feel better.  Maybe there will be fewer tantrums?  Or not.  Maybe all of that is just who she is.  But we’re wondering.

“Mommy, when I grow up, can I be a clown?”

Hmmm.  Part of me wants to respond, “Absolutely not!  Clowns are totally creepy!  And besides, how do you plan to support us in our old age on a clown’s salary?!?”

But instead I offer the obligatory “Sure.  You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up.”

“Mommy?  I want to be a star!”

“Like a rock n’ roll star?” I offer, because we’ve been talking a lot about rock n’ roll lately.

“No, just a star!  Then you can sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ to me!”

The doctor’s office wants to know if we think Addie should be anesthetized for the CAT scan on Friday.  “Do you think she can stay perfectly still for ten minutes?” they ask.  Because if she’s not, the CAT scan won’t work right, and that’s a gajillion dollars down the drain. 

“She’s two,” I keep saying in response, because in my mind that answers the question.  Of course she can’t sit still for ten minutes, especially when being guided into a metal tube with bright lights and weird sounds.  This is a kid who won’t even let us put a band-aid on her knee without much thrashing about and baring of teeth.  She had to get an x-ray of her lungs last year when she had croup, and it took two (male) attendants and Eric to hold her down.  I watched from the hallway because I was pregnant with Nolie and couldn’t be near the radiation, and it was like watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

But for some reason, the receptionist doesn’t want to accept this–apparently, corralling an anaesthesiologist makes scheduling the whole thing a lot more difficult.  “She’s two,” I insist.  She shouldn’t be having to go in that damn thing anyway, but since she does, you better knock her out for it, or else duct tape her in there. 

While they’re at it, they could shoot me some valium.  I’m probably going to need it.