My little guy never stops moving. Truly, NEVER. I don’t think sitting still is at all possible for him. If—IF—his bottom is placed in one spot, a foot is moving, a hand is going. He doesn’t stop. At all. Ever. Even when he is sleeping.
Except when he is sick.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but when he first gets sick. I feel almost grateful. He isn’t moving. Which means, I can actually stop and think and look and listen. A very important thing to do once in a while when you have three other children, including a baby who just turned one.
See, along with H’s never ending movement, comes a supreme intelligence. And couple that with his lack of filters, and I’m in for trouble. Everything must be locked up. Literally with lock and key if at all possible. Or, I might have eggs cracked open on the TV. Or the salt dumped into the dog’s water dish. Or all the cups taken out of the cabinet. Or a beautiful new piece of artwork on my dining room wall. All of this within the two minutes it takes to change a diaper. He can overcome any childproofing ever made. At least any I’ve ever found—and I’ve scoured the Internet along with every baby store imaginable. It doesn’t seem to matter what we try, nothing can deter him. His therapists just look at me and tell me eventually, we’ll come up with something. In the mean time…
So, when H first gets sick, I find the never ending cleaning can have a break. Following him around can stop. I can breathe. I can actually feel comfortable letting the baby down (I was actually thrilled when he had his first birthday that we made it to his first birthday without any major issues). Until, that is, I realize he isn’t moving.
He’s laying there. Still. Unable to move. Nothing matters in his world because “I sick.” It scares me. He needs to be moving and if something can stop him from moving, what am I to do? His communication skills aren’t great. He’s talking now, but he still doesn’t understand fully how to use language. So, as H languishes about, I am overcome with panic—and need to move. Yet, because he is still, I do not have much to do, but wait for him to move. For a faint little whisper of “Mommy”. Which hurts me and delights me. I am never “mommy” but only “mom” and he never needs or wants me, except when he is sick and isn’t moving.
So, there is silence in the house. And stillness. And the occasional neediness. All things I ache for every day, but when they are here, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do for my guy. Is it horrible or just a regular case of childhood illness?
I suppose I have no answers. Just a caution—beware of what you wish for.