Like most parents, I hate to see my children suffer. Lying on the couch, sunken eyes staring blankly at the television, drifting in and out of sleep, the stillness occasionally punctuated by the over-dramatic sigh, �Mommy, I don�t feel good.�
Heart wrenching, really. Makes you want to run to the medicine cabinet for that magic elixir that will make it all better. Children�s Motrin to the rescue!
But wait, a little self-preservation may be in order, here. Think about it: if you make it all better, then they�re up and playing and getting into their usual mischief. And really, what kid is going to rest when he feels fine?
For the faint of heart, I offer my own little angel�s example. He�s two. He hears the words �He�s so cute!� everywhere he goes and answers with a great big smile. Those who think they know him may not believe this story, but I can assure you: every bit of it is true.
My husband, big ole softy that he is, was the culprit. He fell for the great big sigh as the little guy was peacefully watching Barney, took pity on him and dispensed the magic �grapey-grape� while I was in the shower. I came out, confronted by the runaway train.
First, he dumped the economy-size box of Fruit Loops on the living room carpet, and proceeded to stomp on them. He spilled his hot cocoa, poured it really, all over the new Crayolas strewn about the table. He managed to hide one in his fist as I rushed in for clean-up, and promptly created a new work of art on the wall in the hallway.
With each new discovery, chocolate syrup swirled around the kitchen floor, a puddle of apple juice on the living room carpet, emptied box of Kleenex decorating the bedroom, toilet paper streamers down the stairs, I just hoped he would finally settle down for a nap. But Motrin lasts six to eight hours � there just seemed to be no end in sight.
I kept thinking, �How can he top this?�, and he kept at it. At one point, he drew himself a bath and hopped in as I raced up the stairs to make sure he wasn�t about to scald himself. He heard me coming and plopped down still wearing his Pull-up � his poopy Pull-Up.
All the while I still had his sick brother to take care of. So in between my nursemaid duties, clean-up duty and trying to prevent his next devious plan by hiding all possible tools of destruction, I just kept saying to myself, �If I can only make it to nap time.� Of course, nap time isn�t guaranteed anymore, but that medicine had to wear off sometime.
Sure enough, late in the afternoon he showed signs of slowing down. He put in a video and curled up in the recliner with his blanket. All was quiet for a moment, and I took the opportunity to make a quick phone call. What was I thinking?
Soon a naked little boy interrupted me (even took off the Pull-Up this time). �I go potty,� he said.
�Great, let�s go potty,� I said, steering him to the bathroom.
�No, I went potty,� he corrected.
I was both impressed with his language usage and, at the same time, horrified at my next thought, �Where did you go potty?�
�Over there,� he said, pointing to the end of the couch. Apparently his sleeping brother�s toes peeking out from under a blanket had proved to be an irresistible target.
�Mom, my foot�s wet!� whined big brother, as he slowly awakened, while the naked destroyer danced with glee.
At four AM, while I rocked my little one to sleep for the third or fourth time that night, I was beginning to feel a little run down. I sneezed.
�Bless you,� whispered the sleepy bundle in my arms. �Thank you,� I whispered back, kissed his little forehead, patiently waiting for sleep.
All text � 2005 Patti Hermes. All rights reserved.