A friend of Momma’s and her little girl (your friend, by association) came over to play on Wednesday. R (as she will be referred to here) is only two days younger than you are, born early just like you. She’s recently had to have her tonsils and adenoids taken out and has had a difficult time with recovery—refusing to eat or drink because of the pain. Knowing that she didn’t feel well and anticipating the scene that comes when two kids want to play with the same toy at the exact same time simply because the other one is playing with it, I had a little talk with you before they arrived. I explained that she didn’t feel well and that we needed to be nice and do our best to make her feel better—to share toys, to share snacks, to be kind and gentle. You whined over a couple of her toy selections, but you were very gentle and generous, and the two of you actually put a puzzle together as a team. She’d pick out the pieces, and you’d point out where they went. She’d then navigate fitting them in in the right direction, a step that still challenges you sometimes.
Thankfully, you do not know McDonald’s yet, but we thought it might convince R to eat, something she’d really not been doing since the surgery. We were willing to try anything. So you got your first Happy Meal. (Aagh, it pains me to even write that.) Well, neither one of you had any interest in the chicken nuggets or the fries. You sipped a bit of your apple juice, but both of you were feeling distracted by the colorful plastic indoor playground. All I saw when I looked at it was an active breeding ground for super-germs. I finally convinced a single chicken nugget and half a fry into you and decided that was good enough, since it was junk food anyway; you were off to play. You were timid climbing up into the tubes, but once you could see me on each level, you were fine, and you followed my directions about how to get to the next level. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you were stuck. Looking back, I think you might have freaked out because some other kids were working their way up around you, and maybe you started to feel a little closed in upon. Anyway, you wouldn’t budge. You weren’t listening to my instructions. You couldn’t get out of there on your own, and you started to cry. Hard. I had to go in and get you. Seeing you cry, R started to cry too, and by the time I got to you, I had two arms full of crying, snotty kiddos. I had to fight the panic, because I was literally folded up in those tubes. With the help of a stranger uncle who had to go in after his niece, got you down to a level where you guys could crawl out to R’s mom. You were sweaty and crying uncontrollably… and asking to go back in and play. What?! Nuh-uh.
I don’t want this experience to have traumatized you for life… or do I? No. I’m pretty sure a phobia is not the best way to discourage Micky Dee’s. We’ll have to think of something else.
