Mark’s parents are taking care of our boys at our house while he and I keep vigil at the hospital with our post-appendix-rupture daughter.
This is wonderful and something we are grateful for. This also leads to exchanges like the following:
MARK’S MOM: Erin, what do you use to wipe up the bathroom floor?
ME: What do you mean?
MARK’S MOM: I just want to wipe up the floor.
ME (alarmed): Why? Did someone spill something?
MARK’S MOM: No…
(Pause while we stare at each other uncomprehendingly for a moment)
+ + +
The 7-year-old is doing well this morning. We hit a lot of milestones yesterday, and the whole day felt wonderfully positive until after dinner (she ate dinner! That she asked for and selected herself!).
Later that evening she had a routine nursing-care event that turned out to be much more unpleasant for her than either of us or any of the nurses on duty expected or had warned her about, and she accused us of lying about it, became recalcitrant, and refused to take her pain meds for the rest of the night.
But this morning she appeared to understand that in order to go home, she has to drink the amount of fluids we tell her to drink (even if she does not feel like drinking any of the things we offer and cannot think of something else to ask for) and she has to eat meals (even if she is not hungry and none of the choices sound appealing) and she has to go to the bathroom (even if she is tired) and she has to take the pills we tell her to take (even if she thinks she is better without them).
Mark’s mom has come in to visit this morning to help her feel more willing to do all those things. There is no substitute for Grandma there, let me tell you.
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