Just yesterday, for the second time this year, we took James to the emergency room because he was in respiratory distress. The first time this happened, he was actually turning blue. This time it wasn't quite so drastic, but I will, nonetheless, never get used to the helpless feeling that comes with thinking my child's life is.. um.. well... temporary.
But I digress...
That evening, sitting beside James' bed before his breathing became a real issue, I determined that I should try to relieve his coughing by administering a breathing treatment. James has asthma, so this sometimes helps. Anyway, I lifted him out of his bed, put the mask over his mouth and nose and sat in the floor with him as he breathed in the pharmacological remedy. Understand that not a word was passed between us during this process. It was 2am, and all was quiet in the house. When the breathing treatment was over though, I switched off the nebulizer, and James said so quietly, "Thank you, Mommy."
It was hard to lay him back down after that.
My two year old.
By 5:30am, James' breathing was rough (thanks to a bad case of croup and agitated asthma.) So we decided that waiting for the doctor's office to open wasn't an option and took him to Children's Hospital. As I carried him through the early morning chill of downtown Knoxville (the parking lot is on the other side of the building from the emergency room entrance), I paused to wait for passing cars before crossing the road. James, improving with the cool air, lifted his head, took in his surroundings, and said very matter -of- factly, "You better be careful Mommy. There are many cars out here."
My two year old.
Today, I stayed home with James, and fresh off of a dose of steroids, he is not only eating me out of house and home, but I've now dubbed him the Tazmanian Devil! He has been all over the place dancing, laughing.. oh and eating! This is my sick child! So it really should have come as no surprise when I heard him screaming and ran to find that he had toppled head first into his rather large toy box. I pulled him out by the ankles and cradled him as though a new born.
My two year old.
A short while later, James was returning a remote control truck downstairs to his playroom. It's the kind where the vehicle is attached to the remote console with a long wire (you know, so it's not really .. um.. remote). Anyway, I stopped James to help rearrange his armload, concerned that the wire would trip him up on the way down. Once everything was adjusted to my satisfaction, I said "Are you sure you've got it? I can help you. I'm worried you might trip, James." By that time, he was already half way down the stairs. He paused, turned his head ever so slightly toward me, and said,
"It's OK, Mom. I won't trip. I love you!"
My two year old.
I guess my whole point to this long diatribe is that this week, my 2 year old, my precious baby, has been such a little man. Maybe I'm just really tired from lack of sleep over the last two nights or maybe it's just because I can't have any more babies that I'm so nostalgic. That I can so easily picture him headed for college, turning to me saying, "It's OK, Mom. I'll be fine. I love you!" And I wonder where the time goes. I wonder how, in this short 2 years, he knows so much. How he feels so much. I wonder if, on that late summer day when he heads off on his own, I'll remember moments like these. I sure hope so. Because I don't ever want to forget what it was like when he was, well...
My two year old.!
