In the middle of the night

It's often in the middle of the night that I finally get to stop and think about things in my life.  Usually I get the motors churning after one or both of the girls has called out to me and I find myself snuggling, cuddling, changing diapers, Pull ups or sheets, searching for nighttime medications or lost snuggly toys.  I have a dictaphone in which to chatter on so I don't have to keep the thoughts turning in my head, but for some reason that is most often tucked away in a drawer full of phone chargers, iPod cords, cables, and other wires that connect only to the Matrix as far as I know.  Last night was no different as poor Virginie who suffered a severe bronchial infection brought on by allergies and the Bajan tendency to burn everything--paper, plastic, rubber tires, sugar cane, garbage, you name it--and disregard emissions standards from all over the world, putting out some of the blackest smoke from cars and trucks, called out to me some time around 3 am.
The bronchial infection set off a chain of events--antibiotics for the infection caused severe diarrhea, which in turn made my baby's bum so raw I had to cover her in diaper cream just to get her standing.  She became so afraid of going to the bathroom because she knew it would cause pain and stinging.  I couldn't allow her to run free without a diaper as after one too many runny accidents I just couldn't handle it anymore.  She was so sore she didn't want to be touched at all, which made changing her close to impossible.  Because she talks so much, we also had to endure screams and cries of, "Please don't wipe me, Mommy!  It hurts my butt butt!  No do it!"  It was torture.  For all of us.  Really, Didier, Lily, and I tried frantically to ease her pain, to distract her with kisses, with toys, with songs, anything to give her peace.

When she called to me last night, she screamed like an animal caught in a trap.  There was a whimper that just ripped at my heart.  Her little face showed terror when I arrived and I had to coax her into letting me even look at her.  I just wanted to open her little diaper and clean off her parts, put some cream on them, and get back to sleep.  She fought every move I made.  I went left, she went left.  I moved right, she did too.  I tried to pull back one of the tabs of the diaper, she kicked me in my chin, my chest, my arm.  She screamed, "No! No! No!"  I found myself clutched her arm and starting to pin her when I caught myself.  Wait, wait, wait.  She is two years old.  Scared out of her wits and now even more so at this frantic banshee who looks a bit like Mommy but is surely a lunatic, clawing at her, fighting her.  I looked at her wide eyes, wiggling little body.  She was in pain.  She was scared.  She was tired.  So was I.  But these are the moments that Mommies are made. 

I picked her up and snuggled with her, dancing slowly in front of the wall mounted air conditioner, letting it cool us both down.  I whispered in her tiny ear, "I know it hurts, Pumpkinseed.  I want to help you so you can sleep.  Will you let Mommy help you?  Mommy will give you some medicine and put some cream on you so it doesn't hurt.  Will you let Mommy do that?"  She pulled away, frightened I would do it without her consent.  I told her I wouldn't.  But that I knew this would make it better.  We got some Meltaways for the pain and some wipes and lots and lots of diaper cream.  Her tiny behind was coated like a cupcake when I was finished.  I put baby powder on her back as I massaged her to sleep.  I heard her start to purr and then snore softly and I knew she had found some comfort.  As I gently lay her back down on her bed with her paci and tissue in hand, I curled my body around hers to be sure she felt safe and secure and truthfully, to be sure she was asleep before my planned getaway.

But I didn't leave.  Lying in the bed with Virginie, Lily just feet away in her little bed breathing softly, I wondered if these people felt safe with me.  If they realized all that I would do so that they felt secure, cared for, loved.  I thought about the countless mornings these two girls have awakened to find Mommy drooling in their room, twisted in their blankies with animals, tissues, and pacis plastered onto her body.  I have no memories of sleeping, napping, cuddling with either of my parents.  It was a different time.  The level of intimacy required to allow your children to see you as loving, open, vulnerable individuals was just not something that was considered by the mainstream.  Embracing and nurturing the emotional, psychological, spiritual lives of children probably seemed ridiculous.  But for me, it is something I think about constantly.

When I meet people, I often consider the little child that lives in them, often somehow recognizing the moment in which their hearts were pushed to closing, the moment they felt unsafe or threatened.  I find my kindred spirits in those broken souls and yet, what I wouldn't give for my kids to at least feel that they are, were, will be loved always.  There will be enough in the world to give them doubts.  My love or devotion or willingness to accept them, support them, be with them as they are and not as I want them to be just should not be one of them.  After putting Virginie to sleep, tired as I was, I couldn't get back myself.  In the dark room with my two little girls, both of them asleep, both of them tucked in, both of them loved and adored, I tried to tuck my little self in and go back to that moment in my life when my little heart started to close.  When the fear overtook me and I no longer felt I could call out for anyone to help me because I just wasn't convinced that anyone would come.


(c)  Copyright 2011.  City Mom in the Jungle.