Spin Me I Pulsate.

Is there anything more depressing than a sick toddler?

Take one child, who normally is bouncing off the walls, screaming, yelling, making herself KNOWN dammit!, and add what seems to be a headcold.

Quiet, sleepy and pissed off.

What we assumed was one hell of a molar coming through now seems to be some sort of illness. You know the kind. The "I'll just go over here and DIE for a little while" variety.

It;s the saddest thing ever, the dopey eyes, the fever burning up the surroundings. We dutifully give her tylenol ever 4 hours, and the fever dutifully comes back every 3.5. The weird thing is, nothing else is happening-she wakes up, you put her down, and she starts crying like you just tipped her favorite cow.

I made cookies, and she didn't want one. She's that sick. (And for the record, next time I decide to make said cookies, remind me that eating 6 of them at once makes your tummy kinda rumbly in a bad way.)

I just hate to watch it, but at the same time, I love it when my kids are sick. They're cuddly and quiet and nice to sit with a just hold. I love the feeling of the little head under my chin, the hand in mine, the moist doe eyes staring at me like it's my fault. Call me nutty, but sometimes I enjoy the dependance.

So, in lieu of anything useful, that was my day. Poor Rosalyn is sick like a dog, and I have a sick suspicion that I'm next.

Labels: Rosalyn, sick

Posted by thordora at 8:01 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

This morning we ventured out to Shoppers for a few items, including new books for the girls, since Mom, a literacy fan, can rarely, if ever, say no to that particular request. We're there browsing as the woman stocking the publications area starts commenting on my girls, how good they are, how sweet and lovely they are.

She tells me she has a 21 year old and...

you know the rest. She cannot believe where the time has gone. Yesterday he was just a babe in arms, and now, he's off, and gone, and she will not, she never can have those moments gone.

For this reason, we have elected to make less money, and spend less money by being home with our children. We've been so lucky to watch them become people over the last 3 years-we can decode their moods and their gibberish and know exactly when to ignore them and when to hug them. Could I say the same if they were in day care 8 hours a day, 5 days a week?

I don't think I could.

Sometimes I worry that I'm not adequately preparing them for school, or life, but not having them in some type of preschool. That's I'm keeping them behind. But then I notice Vivian explaining how things die, and how beautiful the day is, or how Rosalyn is transfixed by the workings of the blocks in front of her, or the gear toy next to her. My girls are not losing out-they're being themselves, they're being children, without any of the rush, or the stress or the illness that would accompany some type of group care. And they are smart-LORD are they smart. I don't know why I worry.

Daily I see people worrying that we don't allow kids to be kids anymore, and I think on some level, we didn't want to have that worry. I have Vivian to myself, without any external influence, for at most, 2 more years.

2 more years before Vivian has to go out, and begin the terrible, wonderful process of becoming. 3 or more for Rosalyn. And that's all I get. Sure, they're still "mine", but my influence lessens, me as the center of their world disappears. And that's hard to handle, and grasp.

Even if we could afford it, I could never put them in daycare, not now. I love them, their blue moods and anger, their giggles, finding Rosalyn in the garbage can, again. I love every wonderous thing that they do, and I almost cannot bear the thought of losing that, of it not being here with me.

We go places, and people tell us 'What happy kids!" Could there be a better compliment?

In my heart, I fear that I will lose those happy girls to the world at large. And I don't want to let them go.

Labels: growing up, Rosalyn, vivian

Posted by thordora at 11:51 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken: