How To Treat A Bad Cough In 3 Year Old I Should Have Been A Bad Kid

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I Should Have Been A Bad Kid

When I was a child, my mother had a hard time keeping me still, and one day I did a back flip from her arms and landed on my head on a silver box. The doc said I was fine. The box, however, was not, which is a testimony to the hardness of my head.

I was also a sleepwalker. My Indian name was Walks with Diapers (joking), but one night when my parents were sleeping, I managed to climb out of my bed, open the front door, and walk outside the property in only my diapers, heading for the main road where I would have been killed on Gerber Street if my psychic mother hadn’t woken up and yelled, “The baby’s out!” Luckily they found me in time, but they scared me awake and the diapers came in handy.

So you can imagine how traumatic it could be for a jumping bean to hit Alice in Wonderland riding a spinning tea cup with her mother, trapped in the dark, the ascending structure, the Mad Hatter jumping maniacally during every pain, horrible. minute. Eventually the park staff came up and carefully got each of us out of the cups and back onto solid ground. Disneyland was never my cup of tea after all.

I also had a penchant for strange and wild animals. I was clumsy and fell a lot, and I was obsessed with boys in kindergarten. Other than that, from what I heard, I was a nice kid. For some reason, I must have had the blood of George W in my veins (Washington, not Bush) because I couldn’t tell a lie. If I broke it or made it, I told myself.

The adage is that if you are a pain in the ass as a child, your parents will come back to you later. Maybe it’s some sort of ancestral curse and it typically plays out in your children, but I’ve never had it. But sometimes it plays in your parents.

So it was time to start thinking about selling mom’s house and moving her to an adult community where she could enjoy life and not have to worry about maintaining a fifty-seven-year-old house, a large garden, cleaning and cooking. She was hot and cold about the idea, but seemed to be starting to embrace it. That is, until it’s actually time to make the move.

“I’m not ready,” she said. “I have to go through all these things.” It reminded me of when my parents tried to get me to go to bed at night. I was the negotiator. Payment, I thought. “Five more minutes, Dad,” I begged. And the minutes turned into an hour, sometimes more.

This stuff included unidentifiable fragments of things that once worked, old cough drops, unworn clothes, safety pins, tapes, dead bugs, lone jelly beans (liked the black licorice ones, but couldn’t tell the beans apart from bugs). broken clothespins that she always used to hang her things out on the line in her backyard, items inherited from siblings who had passed, food way past its expiration date, dust and lots of memories . I understand. For me, as I got older, simpler was better. For her, all these things were her life and we had to remove them and reorganize them in a new way.

Mother’s delays became one year, and then three. But his memory was starting to give him problems and he knew it.

“Maybe it’s time,” he said one day. And as I choked back tears, I agreed. Sometimes daughters know best and there is that tipping point when the parent becomes the child, but this was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, harder than even walking away from a romantic relationship.

So I went out and bought points, lots of them. Red dots. I told her she could put on all the things she couldn’t live without and we took her to her new home and she could go back at her leisure to go through the rest of the things and we would . sell, donate or throw away anything else she didn’t want. It seemed like a great idea, but it was like losing control of her life for her.

And the long ordeal begins. We have found a place, the best and the most highly recommended in the area. It was so good I was ready to move. Three squares a day and a maid? sign me up

Mom had loved my little apartment, so I fixed up her new place the same way and had everything ready when she moved in. Lights, candles, action. He liked it the first night, but soon after, things changed. “When can I go home?” she asked. “Mom, stay here now. We’re selling the house, remember?” I said She frowned at me and her mouth turned into a straight line. I was scared. “You said I could go back here. I don’t like it here. These people are all sick and old and I’m BORED.” When I was a baby and took my bottle, Mom said I did so well with the transition. “The bottle is all gone, mom!” I proudly proclaimed.

But I only had my bottle for a few years and she had her house for fifty-seven, and I realized that there was no comparison. I had moved eighteen times in those years, so I obviously welcomed the change, but the change scared him and drove him crazy. Damn crazy. So crazy that I started to wonder if there was a daughter protection program.

And I began to second guess myself in the same way I did when I had reached that point in my relationships with men when it was time to change, but my voice kept telling me that this was the right thing . to do. She needed to be safe and she needed available and qualified medical care.

Mom might have lost her memory, but she still had her superpowers. She convinced an unsuspecting old coot who still had her driver’s license and who fell under her spell, to take a ride in her Mustang fastback, a ride right to her house that happened to be dismantled at the moment It looked like she was ready to explode, but luckily I had a good friend helping me at the time and he fell under her spell for a few hours, and we sent Mr. Mustang packing while we done the same.

There were times when I came home alone during this process and as I walked through the rooms, dust covered memories flashed through my mind. I saw the holes in my father’s tie and I remembered all the times he had torn it in anger, shooting for two or three days until he calmed down, until the last time it was the last time He never came back. Mom said he was going to come back, but he ended up dying instead at the young age of forty-four.

Tears began to flow down my face and mixed with the dust of fifty-seven years. “I miss you, dad,” I cried. “I want to be here.” Now I know why she had been so resistant to leaving the house. The walls spoke to me now, much the same way I’m sure they did to her every night for all those years. Then suddenly, I felt the urge to turn my head and my eyes landed on a drawer in the cage of the living room. It must have been my voice (I know), but I opened it and pulled out a manila envelope that was marked “Personal”, but it wasn’t in my parents’ handwriting.

I didn’t even look, but I reached in blindly, not knowing what I might find. And when I opened my eyes, my heart skipped a beat. It was a card from my dad, an Easter card he had written when The Beatles were my favorite band. “Happy Easter to Robyn Beatle from Daddy Beatle. She will always love you.” That card must have been hidden for over forty years, in fact I don’t ever remember seeing it at all. And suddenly I felt cocooned in an indescribable warmth and cried for two hours straight. I can feel him. He was there with me. I also found a card he had given mom the day I was born that said, “Glad it’s a girl!” I had always asked this too.

I suddenly felt stronger and as I went through more drawers and more boxes, I began to get to know my mother again. I found self-help books from years past, incense, candles we made together and recipes she wanted to make for me too, exercise videos, knitting projects, awkward family photos and beautiful photos, old records Sinatra, pay stubs from jobs. that she had, and more. That was what was bothering him now. All of this represented his passion and purpose and now he had to let it all go.

I started to feel like this was a rite of passage for both of us and I thanked God that I was able to find pieces of my mother’s life while she was still alive and could talk to me. There was no way he could have done this if she was dead. Compassion flooded my heart and soul. At first I felt a lot of pain, but I felt pain in my stomach and sometimes I doubled over to try to stop. Compassion hurts well and I felt it in my heart as it tore at the seams of my psyche. This was cathartic.

So when the mother tells me that her bed is not her bed and that her clothes are not her clothes and that everyone takes her things (because she can’t find them), I realize that maybe she is stuck in the cups of tea. Its own reality now, and you know that somehow, one day, someone will gently bring it down to safe and solid ground, like they did for me that day among the jellies, bugs and Beatles.

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