911, what's your emergency?

It's not just the spiritual or existential crises that can get you down, move you to tears, or to action.  Last night, the littlest one, dancing and swirling in a costume much too big for her, tripped over her feet and fell backwards like a plank onto the floor, hitting her head and knocking herself out.  This is what I was able to surmise by talking to Lily, looking around the scene of the crime, and piecing it all together, as I had been in the kitchen cooking dinner and singing to myself, happy that we had made it back to the States, found a place to live, a good school for Lily, where she would start tomorrow, and that we were on target to get to bed on time.  Even after sidewalk chalk and hopscotch at the front of the house. 

And then, THUD.  I check every thud.  I am that mom.  And glad I did, because I arrived to find Virginie in a pink ballet costume lying completely still on the floor, lids half opened, eyes glassy and no rise in her chest.  As in not breathing on the floor.  In a panic I grabbed her, turned off the television, started calling to her, "Virginie!  Virginie!  Look at Mommy!" and she just rolled her eyes into the back of her head and fluttered her eyelashes.  Now past the edge of hysteria I was crying and dialing my sister.  Right, not 911.  I don't know why.  The conversation was brief.  I told her that Virginie seemed completely out of it, unconscious.  She said call 911.  I hung up and called. 

The paramedics, firemen, and police officers arrived as I was filling the husband in on the goings-on over the phone.  He'd had to ask me three times to slow down as I was barely coherent and talk fast anyway, but this was just gibberish.  He heard the male voices in the house and wondered what the heck was going on over here until I was able to speak clearly.  The officers turned off the food on the stove that I had immediately forgotten about and sat with me, examining Virginie who had since come to and was screaming like a banshee.  Lily was crying and worried that (1) we were going to have to go the hospital in an ambulance and (2) we would be turning off the television and would not see how the Backyardigans episode ended.  Honestly, I am not sure in which order her concerns ranked.

Virginie's eyes were checked as was her pulse, her heartbeat, her blood pressure, which made her giggle and remark to her examiner, "You squeezed me.  That tickles."  I declined a trip to the hospital in the back of the ambulance waiting in front of the house, but confirmed that I would monitor her every few hours and call right away if she vomited, looked or acted lethargic or different that usual, or passed out.  And just like that, they were gone.  We had chicken fingers and broccoli for dinner with popsicles for dessert.  I finished putting Lily's clothes out for the first day of school, bathed them, and tucked them into bed.  When the husband came home from work, having been reassured via text that all was well, I fell into his chest heaving and sobbing.  I had been scared to death, beside myself, but didn't want the girls to see my fear.  Just once Lily asked, "Why do you have that sad face?"  And I responded, "Because I knew Virginie was hurt and I didn't know what to do to help her.  I love you and Virginie more than anything in the world and I was afraid."

She stared at me blinking, blinking, as if realizing all the truth in that statement for the first time.  "You love us."  I do.

Virginie is fine.

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