I am discovering the next level up of anxiety-triggered behaviours for James seems to be: accidents. He's slipped down the stairs, bumped his head, burned his finger, and scraped his ankle, each of which set off a bout of crying and fixation over the pain, and loud, repeated demands to "rip it out/off!"
While all this raises my blood pressure, I do know that, once over the initial shock, James is quite capable of tolerating a lot of things. So I try to listen what he says, administer something soothing, and hold him and tell him that yes, he got an owie and it will hurt for a while, but then he will feel better. Usually I add "And be more careful" as a chaser. What the heck - makes me feel better.
The first aid kit and ibuprofen have been well used on this trip. And good golly, I think I can beat Superman in the "nerves of steel" department, because we're all still alive and relatively happy. And in one piece, because that is important.
Just this morning, James threw me a new one. Throwing open the door to the porch, where I'd been enjoying a morning view of ocean and quiet, he announced, crying, "I have a buuuuuuuuuump! We need to take my red tooth OUT! NOW!!" Fifteen minutes, a damp paper towel, ibuprofen, and a cold yogurt squeeze up paper, and I was pretty sure the source of the misery was being away from home and (for the record) a small bump on his tongue. We had a small interlude of quiet with the iPad ...
|Seconds before the ill-fated bathroom break.|
I could hear the the drama that ensued below after water somehow mysteriously got on his pajama top. Between the wailings, I prompted him to just change his clothes and come back up here. This is why I pack extra jammies and underpants. As I type this, he's now wearing his tractor jammies, sitting in a chair and getting the piggies in Angry Birds, like nothing ever happened.
And now, more coffee, and perhaps ten more quiet minutes on that porch.