Since when was toddlerhood the time when kids transition from Jekyll to Hyde? I thought I had 13 more years until that happened.
For the past 2.5 years there has been no stopping Babisodes. She came out the womb with a fist in the air (many stitches my friends), super-man style, and has circled our world ever since. She’s faster than a speeding crawler, more powerful than Thomas the Train, and is able to leap tall crib railings in a single bound. She’s always been one tough cookie. Bonks on the head while learning to crawl? No problem. Shots at the pediatrician? Piece of cake. Up until she witnessed Chuck-E-Cheese in person, she rarely found anything to make a fuss over. Being a crybaby just wasn’t part of her repertoire.
Until Sunday.
This past father’s day Babisodes woke with an occasional cough. Since then the cough has developed into hacking, blue-in-the-face episodes with a prolonged gag finale. The innate nurse within me immediately reacts to any oxygen-deprived scenario. I find myself stifling my urge to yell “suction!” while reaching for an O2 mask. So instead I sit on the sidelines, consoling and coaching her to cough it up and spit. It’s. NOT. working. Feed this kid some spinach- Insta-spit. Give her some toothpaste and ask her to spit- Negative.
Her inability to follow direction and expel the root of her congestion (sorry if TMI) is prolonging her recovery. However, she has caught on quickly to my consoling. It appears that the kid who happily ran around like a monkey even with a 104°F temperature is slipping away. Four days of coughing, sneezing and me running over to verify she’s still breathing, has seemingly loosened that super-hero cape.