I don’t have anything really new to share tonight, but as I try to post something about Namine every night (call this my own writing exercise, I guess), I’ll share with you what she did tonight after finishing her breathing treatments.
Namine has to sit in her carseat now to get her breathers, because she’s too big (especially with her casts) for her bouncy seat. She hates it. So she’s always elated to be set free. “Ree!” she says, as I put her down on the floor again.
“Yes,” I told her, “crawl around as you like. I’m going to go get the rest of your meds.”
“Muh, muh,” she responds, nodding. She turned to the picture book she had out, one of two that Jessica and I made of her when she was a little itty bitty thing, less than six months old. (Matt, if you’re reading this, it might amuse you to know that she calls herself Nom.)
I left her in the living room, content and talking to her pictures, and walked into the kitchen to start drawing her five medications that she takes nightly by mouth. I had only just started when I heard, faintly at first but growing louder, “Muh, muh. Muh, muh,” vocalizing rhythmically as she scooted herself from the living room into the kitchen.
If I can digress for a moment, it still astounds me how quickly she moves with her casts on. She really has recovered nicely, and now she only needs pain medication once, sometimes twice a day, and that’s all. And that’s just normal infant Motrin; she doesn’t seem to need any of the hard stuff her doctors prescribed for her.
As she turned the corner into the kitchen, she saw me and squealed. It always gives my heart a squeeze to see that she’s so happy to see me. It’s certainly more than I deserve. “Hi, Namine!” I said. “I’ve got your medicine here, okay?”
She took all her medicine well, as she always does. After I gave her the last one, I knelt down beside her. She stopped bouncing in place, like she knew what I was going to ask. She probably did. “Namine,” I said, “are you in pain?” She nodded. “Where?” She pointed to her legs and blew a kiss. “All right, sweetie. Let me get you some pain medicine.” I stood back up and drew from the ibuprofen bottle. (It’s that generic stuff from Target, but we still call it Motrin.)
As soon as Namine saw the syringe, which is a different shape than the rest of her medicine syringes, she said loudly, “Moh! Mooooh!”
“Yes,” I said. “This is your Motrin, honey.” When I knelt down beside her, she was already sitting up straight with her head tilted slightly back and her mouth open. I usually have to encourage her to sit still to take her medicine, but never the Motrin. It didn’t take her long to realize what it was for. As far as she’s concerned, there’s probably no difference between the before and after for the rest of her meds. But her pain medicine? She’s a smart girl; I’m sure she figured that out a long time ago.
One more thing before I go. I put her to bed shortly before I got online here, and I can never predict how quickly she’ll fall asleep. Right now she’s in her crib going “Na na na na… MAT-MAN!” I suppose that’s what I get for teaching her the old Batman TV show theme.