Around 5:50 I heard the call: “Daddy?”
Daddy was out cold, no doubt having dreams about a TV show we’ve been binge-watching. So I got up and went to investigate. Imagine my surprise when I trudged into the next room and discovered my daughter had been replaced by a dawn pixie:
“You shall be my pixie squire!”
“Can you please help me with the wings, Mom please?” she asked. Well, sure I could. “I want to go to school in a fairy,” she added, as I trussed her up. But when I said she couldn’t, that she would have to be a secret fairy, she understood. She wore the costume to breakfast, though, and then jumped in to my yoga routine, waving her wand through the warrior poses.
I hope your week got off to a similarly pleasant start!
Bean hasn’t been very well this week. She seemed a bit low at first, sleeping more, playing less, regressing in some of her behaviors. Then the coughing started– deep, wet, angry coughs that leave her exhausted and whimpering. That wake her (and us) up at night. That make us both stop what we’re doing when we hear her, to make sure she won’t vomit anything up.
This morning, the fourth day of the Cough, T. took her to the doctor’s office. The kindly pediatrician asked Bean how she was feeling. T explained that Bean isn’t super-verbal, owing to the autism, and the pediatrician looked at her notes, flummoxed. There was nothing about autism in E’s notes at our GP’s office. That could be read as a sign that:
- The Worcestershire authority that evaluated Bean did not communicate with the Birmingham authority in which we live;
- Bean has hardly needed the doctor in her five years of life (at least not since her debut).
We’ll focus on point two, because we like to stay positive around here. Anyway, she now has an updated file down at the GP’s and an amoxicillin prescription. She went to bed with much less barking tonight– though she had lost her voice, and sounds like she’s been smoking 20 a day since she was capable of holding her head up. We’ll prop her up outside tomorrow and see if the sunshine helps the healing process.
If that doesn’t work, there’s always ice cream.
I’ve been taking a trip down memory lane this evening while
procrastinating researching articles for work. In the last 24 hours I’ve learned that
Neither of these things shock me quite so much as the idea that Eve is about to be five. FIVE. I was running this morning and the air tasted the same as it did the morning we left the house with my Mom, clutching the go-bag, tracking contractions, and chasing Quinn and Zeno back inside.
Seems like five minutes ago that we were celebrating her first birthday with cupcakes:
It is delicious cake.
The party is a go: we’ve opted for an after school thing at a play place, sort of a happy hour for the under-sevens. We’re hoping a ton of her friends can make it.
Here is what I discovered in the kitchen a few moments ago:
She’s a little unclear on the concept of “clean” (fer instance, that water is WAY too cold to effectively remove grease), but she understands “wet” and “splashy” perfectly.
The Internets tell me the Oscars are coming up. I have seen exactly one of the films with a nomination this year. One. Fortunately, the drama at home is of the highest quality. In fact, if you drop by at about 7:50 PM, you should catch a veritable tour-de-force of improvisational acting.
"Yes, I know, I'm so fabulous."
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INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
MUMMY finishes putting away toys and switches off the
television. KIDLET looks up, alarmed, from the coloring book
in which she has been dreamily scribbling.
No Wall-E. Time for bed.
Kidlet scrambles down from the table and runs into a far
corner of the room.
I want juice, please!
You have juice here.
Want food! See the fishy!
(picking up a blanket)
Time for bed, dear.
Change the nappy?
Mummy checks for biohazards.
She picks up Kidlet.
Oh, dear! Go see the ducks? Please?
INT. STAIRWAY - NIGHT
Mummy carries a wriggling, WAILING Kidlet up.
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Kidlet YOWLS. Mummy pastes a toothbrush and sticks it in
A moment's silence as Kidlet sucks the paste off: yum!
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
Mummy fishes pajamas out of a dresser. Kidlet begins
desperately pulling toy food from a toy stove.
Make the food! Apple in a bow-el.
Spoon in a bow-el.
(holding up toy banana)
Undeterred, Mummy comes at Kidlet with the pajama shirt.
Kidlet goes limp in the middle of the floor.
Mummy pulls off Kidlet's shoes and tights.
She shakes Kidlet out of her shirt. Kidlet flops back onto
the hardwood, not protesting when her head connects: BONK.
Mummy wrestles Kidlet's noodle limbs into the pajamas.
Kidlet suddenly retracts into a fetal position.
Mummy lifts the tiny, raging nautilus into the crib and tucks
blankets around her.
Good night, cupcake. I love you.
Goot night! Sleep a tight! Ha ha!
Mummy SIGHS. She turns on the night light and goes out.
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