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Sunday morning Paula woke up, sat up, started coughing a threw up. While this is not terribly unusual for Paula when she has a chest cold, this came after about three weeks of her having a cough. I looked at my schedule: Kit was set to arrive later that morning, Monday through Wednesday were booked solid with freelance translating work (yay!). I knew if Paula was going to see a doctor, it would be immediately. I packed her into the car and went to Emergency.
Waiting for triage Paula grinned and sang songs, provoking reluctant smiles from the slouched and miserable people sitting with us. And then she would turn to me and say, clear as day, "I don't want to see the doctor. I don't want to." Wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, she might just as casually told me that she doesn't like melted cheese. This also provoked smiles from the waiting sickies.
But the ER was pretty empty and we got taken to a bed quickly. While we idled on the vinyl mattress and white sheet, Paula chattered and pulled dolls, a stuffed cat, her beaded purse and sippy cup out of her little cross-merchandising Dora backpack.
A man's deep voice came from beyond the white curtain. "Hello? How old is your little girl?" He sounded weak.
"Three," I answered.
"Her voice is so happy. It's really helping me with my pain."
"Yeah, she does that for me, too." I smiled.
We chatted a little more with the disembodied voice whose owner suffered from diabetes and gout until the gray-haired doctor came to examine Paula. She reiterated her objection to being seen by the doctor, crying and flailing as I wrapped arms and legs around her so he could look in her ears. She quieted and held me tightly as he listened to her heart and lungs.
"Her chest sounds clear," he said, "but with her history of pneumonia, let's get a chest X-ray to be on the safe side."
I signed to Paula, "You're going to have an X-ray. Remember what that's like?" She had one last in September, I think.
REMEMBER, she signed. X-RAY.
The nurse with the doe eyes and Curious George scrubs led us to the X-ray waiting area. In a few minutes the technician invited us in.
By this time hours had passed since our 6 a.m. wake-up and light breakfast. Paula was tired, hungry and more than a little stressed out. She vacillated between crying and hugging me and taking a deep breath to attempt this new exercise of standing on the stool facing a square and spreading out her arms. The first time she got into position, she moved and messed up the shot. Second time I suggested she hug the frame, and the x-ray was a success.
I applauded her victory and she grinned, heading for the door.
"Uh, we're not done." The technician confirmed that we needed the side view.
"One more, okay sweetie?" Hearing this, Paula started to cry. She wrapped arms around her neck and wouldn't let go.
I talked with her about how this was the last thing, how after this nobody would poke at her anymore. If she would just stand still for a few seconds with her arms and chin up, we would be finished. I repeated our shared medical mantra, for use in earwax removal, taking earmold impressions and all other unpleasantness. "Practice being brave."
"Be like Hawkgirl, okay, sweetie? Practice being brave like Hawkgirl."
Then it hit me.
"Paula, how does Hawkgirl fly? Like this!" I raised my arms over my head and looked up a-la Superman. "Fly like Hawkgirl!"
And my little girl took a deep breath. She raised her chin and looked at the ceiling. She raised her arms and stood there like three feet of solid resolve.
The technician, who had combined a Zen-like patience with kind words for both of us, leapt through the door where he pushed the button and took the shot. "Take a deep breath!" he shouted out. I signed it to Paula but she didn't even look at me, just kept staring at the ceiling and flying away.
We got the X-ray. Paula collapsed into my arms and I squeezed her till she wiggled out of my arms. Running out into the hall she jumped up and down, arms still held high and face glowing. "Hawkgirl! Hawkgirl! Brave!" She held her fists at the level of her shoulders, exulting.
Paula, clowning around on a recent visit to the Shedd Aquarium. My favorite recent photo of my girl; just had to share.
In the proud tradition of explaining things to your deaf or hoh child that hearing children would pick up passively, I have explained to Paula that Daddy and Mommy are married. That Daddy is also known as Mommy's husband, that Mommy is also known as Daddy's wife.
"Daddy is my husband. I am his wife." This doubles as a lesson in possessive pronoun use.
In the interest of driving home this point, I showed Paula wedding pictures and our wedding video. Proof, if you will, that the holiness and the matrimony were both in full force on the day that I became his wife and he became my husband.
Paula has run with it. Grandma and Grandpa? "Married." Uncle Jaime and Tia Graciela? "Married." Tio Javier and Tia Livier? "Married." Uncle Kit and Aunt Desiree? "Married." She says this with a slow, authoritative nod and brings her hands together in front of her - imagine bride and groom holding hands in the ceremony - so her point is driven home in ASL as well as English.
Somewhere in here she put it together about marriage and babies. I'm not sure exactly what she put together, but she transitioned from saying "married," about all the couples in her life, to talking about "born"-ing a baby. She's interested in birth? Our video collection can also accommodate that.
When I was pregnant with Paula, my mom brought some birth videos to entertain me while on bed rest. Having experienced the mother of all "birth videos" by attending the birth of my brother when I was 10, this was more recreational than educational viewing. The one video I still have is the one called Gentle Birth Choices. If you've taken a childbirth class, it's the one where everyone has terrible, terrible late-80's hair and makeup. Oh, sorry. That's all of them.
Anyway, Paula has become obsessed with watching this video. Every day at least two or three times she runs to the entertainment monster and yells out, "Born! Born! Born baby!"
I'm working on teaching her how to conjugate the verbs to bear, to birth, give birth, or something. Meanwhile, she is sitting on the sofa clutching her naked brown-skinned baby doll, engrossed in watching mommies cry and push, and finally pull their babies from the yoni to the breast in one swift motion.
Two of the births featured show mothers giving birth in the bathroom, and Paula likes to talk about this part a lot. To her it is fascinating that a baby could be born while the mother stands over the toilet, or while the mother kneels on the bathroom floor. When the baby emerges, the mother grasps the baby to her skin and Paula bounces on the sofa, exclaiming, "Born ina bathroom! Born ina bathroom!"
Needless to say, our bathroom, mostly the bathtub, has become the site of numerous pretend births. Thankfully in most of these Paula has played the birthing mother and I have played the actual mother sitting on the toilet lid reading a novel. That's my favorite part to play in pretend births. Maybe later this year I'll take an interest in the other role.
Paula has been basically hating on Joel this last week. He's only had to breathe in her direction for her to run hollering to me, clinging to my leg and yelling, "My mommy! My mommy!" Like as if he wanted me to be his.
We have explained that he is my husband, not my son. We have asked her what she would do if I had a baby, if she would be able to share me then; she says yes. Joel has tried all kinds of different approaches, from laid-back to authoritative to playful, and all have been met the same way.
This morning Joel intended to take Paula "out," meaning probably to a McDonald's plastic play emporium, to try to win back some of her affection. But by the time he was awake enough to start getting ready, she was going down for a nap. That's my girl! Up an hour before dawn with Mommy.
Joel had a wake to attend this afternoon for the father of an old band mate, so I ended up taking Paula to the park with Amy and her kids since the weather was warm. Paula and the kids had fun, and after they left, Paula and I stayed and I pushed her on the swings. She counted out loud to twenty and I gave her underdogs. I caught her as she swung in the kiddie swings and tickled her legs. She relaxed into the swing and laughed with her head back and her curls looking golden in the late winter sun.
A little girl, about six, I'd guess, watched me sign to Paula with obvious interest, but didn't say anything. When Paula noticed the girl looking her way, she gave her stock response to the interest of an older girl: total, unbridled glee. They swung side by side for a while and then the little girl caught Paula's eye and pointed at the rocking horses. "You wanna go play over on the horses?" Paula glanced at me for confirmation, and I signed HORSE. She looked back at her new friend and nodded.
When the little girl had to leave, she tried to get Paula's attention but Paula was too fixated on her rocking horse. I told the girl to tap Paula on the shoulder, and she did, and Paula looked at her.
In a nice strong voice she said, "I have to go! Bye-bye!" She pointed toward her father, who waited to walk home with her, and waved good bye, holding Paula's eye contact the whole time.
Wow, I thought. She gets it.
Paula and I left soon after. "Bye-bye, park!" Paula shouted and waved as we walked across the concrete and around the big pile of dog poop that Paula enthusiastically labeled in a loud, clear voice.
Amy fed us dinner, and Joel called to say he was back from the wake. We came home to spend a few minutes of "family time" before Paula goes to bed. I had an idea as Joel greeted us at the back door.
"Take Paula on a w-a-l-k," I suggested slyly. "It's still nice out and I bet she won't miss me."
Joel grabbed his coat from the coat rack and retrieved Paula's tricycle from winter storage in the garage. I don't think Paula even noticed I wasn't with them as they headed out the gate and toward the front sidewalk. I came inside to be accosted by Coco as I took off my sweater and boots.
I ran up to the front window to see if they were still in view. I had to peer down the sidewalk, about halfway down the block, but there they were. The big man in the black coat, walking beside the little girl in jeans and a denim jacket, happily pedaling her tricycle.
Okay, I'm fasting for the first time in years and it's been going pretty well (which is to say I'm still alive), but I realized this morning on the phone with my mom that I'm having a lot of anxiety. Why? I don't know. It just seems that the fasting and the anxiety seem to be going hand in hand.
But maybe that's not the case. Maybe I feel that kind of anxiety a lot, and just cope with it by eating large quantities of relatively healthy food. My mom suggested yoga, tai chi, meditation, prayer and other inedible forms of stress relief. Good suggestion. I'm getting right on that.
I didn't fast today, though. I ate lunch and drank some water because I told Joel that I would take today off and try to figure out why I was having heart palpitations. Turns out, I think it was the anxiety.
Today I felt anxious about leaving Paula - a little warm and extra clingy - at school. I felt anxious about If I'm Not Fasting Right. I felt anxious as I washed my hands and face before saying my obligatory prayer.
Maybe it's all just me having PMS and not exercising and not coping with same by eating large quantities of relatively healthy food. By the way, is anyone else continuing on their recently-initiated exercise routine during the fast? Is this the way fasting is supposed to feel? I never feel like I know the answer.
So I'm off to do some of the long stretches in my Yin Yoga book, and then shower and go pick up Paula. Joel has grad school tonight so it will be Just Us Girls, watching a video and relaxing until bed time. I guess the fact that school hasn't called me means she's not sick, but that doesn't mean I'm not worried.
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