With You

There may be nothing more painful for a parent than watching his or her child suffer – whether from a tummy ache, a broken heart, or a life-threatening medical condition – and not being able to do anything about it. I was reminded of that fact this morning when I woke up to the sound of hysterical screaming at 3am. I raced down the hall to find my daughter sitting up in her perspiration-soaked bed, coughing (a horrible, croup-y, phlegm-filled hacking) so hard that she nearly made herself throw up, sobbing hysterically, and shaking. I held her in my arms and rocked her to calm her down while I offered her whatever I could think of to help. She didn’t want a drink of water, she adamantly refused to take any medicine, she didn't want a cool washcloth, she didn’t want music on, she didn’t want to stay in her bed, she didn’t want to sleep in the guest room. Finally I asked her if there was anything she wanted. Through her tears, she clung tightly to my neck and croaked out, “With you, Mama.”

I was offering her the world, but all she wanted to make herself feel better was to be with me.

So often as parents, we want to offer our kids everything we can think of. We want to give them the best toys, the most delicious and healthiest foods, the most comfortable homes, the coolest wardrobes, the best education, the nicest friends, the most fun classes and clubs and activities. And we’re frustrated with ourselves when we feel like we’re falling short of that goal. But all too often, we forget that what our children want most of all is just to be with us. To play with us, to talk to us, to spend time with us, to get to know us, to love us, and to be loved by us. Our mere presence is comforting, reassuring, educational, inspiring pride and ambition. Being THERE is much more important than being anything else.

So, at 3am, I trudged downstairs and stretched out on the couch with a hot little human bundle clinging to me like a limpet, her face nuzzled into my shoulder and her soft hair trailed across my face. I stroked her warm back and felt her body relax and her choked coughing settle into a gentle, sleeping gurgle. She had found the place where she knew she would be cared for, protected, and kept safe, the place where she was happy and loved. And so had I.

With you. 

I Hab a Code

Last week Herb caught a miserable cold, and despite our best efforts, Ryan caught it on Friday night. He was fine during the day, but he was crankier than usual during the evening, and he woke up at 10:30pm with an unpleasant cough, a stuffy, runny nose, and that awful “misery” cry that says he’s horribly uncomfortable. We gave him some Tylenol for the sore throat, put the humidifier on for the stuffy nose, and gave him a small bottle for general comfort, and he fell back asleep for a few hours. But when he woke up at midnight, he was inconsolable. I snuggled him, bounced him, fed him, patted his back, and sang to him for over an hour until finally he fell asleep on my chest from pure exhaustion. He slept restlessly for a few hours than woke in misery again. We repeated the cycle all night: crying, Tylenol, bottle, more crying, exhausted sleep, wake, lather, rinse, repeat.

I think what must be most miserable for a baby who’s sick is that he has no idea that he’ll get better. Children have very little comprehension of time, or of things that change over the course of time. All they understand is the here and now, so when they have trouble breathing because of a stuffy nose, or their throats hurt, or their tummy is upset, in their minds this is how it will be forever. Remember that viral YouTube “David After the Dentist” video? The little boy is recovering from anesthesia and is disoriented and seeing double, and asks his daddy despairingly, “Will I feel like this forever?”

Fortunately, even if Ryan doesn’t know he won’t feel like this forever, Mommy and Daddy know. So we do our best to keep him comfortable and distracted, we wipe his nose and pat his back and crank the humidifier. We walk him, we bounce him, we sing all three hundred variations of “Old McDonald Had a Farm”, we even reassure him that he’ll feel better soon. Sometimes it feels like nothing we can do will help, but just holding him when he finally drops from exhaustion and misery makes me feel like I’m doing something. I may not be able to make him better, but at least I can reassure him that Mommy is here. He won’t feel like this forever, but Mommy and Daddy will be here for him forever.