It’s hard to be a three year old when you’re sick.

It’s hard to be with a three year old that is sick.

At least hard for me.

It wasn’t hard for Mom and Dad,

Who hadn’t been either self-absorbed or single in 30 plus years.

Sacrificing their needs for others was their normal.

Water off a ducks oily back for them.

For me, it was more like a waterfall pummeling the sitting duck,

repeatedly.

How did they do it?

I stood mostly aloof.

I watched.

Took mental notes.

Tried not to let the sickness attach itself to me,

Which meant avoiding the three year old.

That was not Mom’s tactic.

Her tactic was to bring him close.

Her tactic was to hold him,

All day if necessary;

Rock him as his head lay weary on her shoulder,

Rub his back as he watched cartoons from bleary eyes.

Comfort, comfort, comfort.

In the night he woke up coughing nonstop as if it was his last breath each time.

I was paralyzed in the neighbouring room.

What if he died?

My tactic was to give into fear and a bazillion “what ifs.”

I would have panicked had I been in charge. But hallelujah I wasn’t.

Dad’s tactic was different.

He just rigged up a croup tent with sheets and an electric frying pan heating water inside, filling it with steam; a backwoods humidifier.

Then he stayed up the rest of the night

To make sure the three year old slept

And didn’t burn himself on the makeshift humidifier.

He didn’t die after all.

  We knew he was starting to feel better the next day

when he began to be less listless and more him-ish.

Fighting with his brother. Insisting on noodles only for every meal.

Then it was nap time.

And he informed us he wasn’t intending to nap.

He was strong willed to start with,

But add into the equation that he wasn’t well,

And you had one obstinate,

Self-absorbed,

Three year old.

Gramma and Papa said he was going to nap.

Gramma went upstairs to get the books ready.

The three year old tried a new tactic.

“I want to go home.”

The trouble with being three is that despite your very firm ideas of what should and should not be happening to you, you have almost no control of your environment.

A bit like me.

Despite my very firm ideas of what should and should not be happening to me, I had almost no control of my environment, which happened to be being in a cabin in the woods,with two sick nephews, my parents and no vehicle.

I was ready to support the three-years old’s suggestion.

Call the parents. Get him home. He should be at home.

He was sick after all.

I watched.

Still aloof.

Wondering what the end result would be.

Would my selfless parents keep this up?

These sleepless nights and long days of taking care, taking care, taking care?

Personally, I was getting a bit more comfortable with it.

The kids didn’t cough in my face as much.

I really enjoyed playing endless games of

Old Maid and Go Fish with the six-year old.

But now the three-year old was putting his foot down.

I watched Dad.

He didn’t sympathize verbally with the three-year old.

He didn’t lay down the law with an authoritative tone.

He just picked him up.

Held him close.

Like Mom had done. All day yesterday.

And the three-year old didn’t fight Papa.

He just laid his weary head against Papa’s chest and let himself be held still.

Papa walked around for a bit,

No doubt to throw the child off the scent,

And then he subtly began the ascent to the bedroom.

And the three-year old napped

For a LONG time.

And arose almost a different being.

Rested.

Anyone who coughed half the night needed a three hour nap.

Poor thing.

I didn’t intend to get close,

To really take part in the caring of the sick three-year old.

And I suppose I could have kept avoiding it if he had avoided me.

But he didn’t.

I was making lunch.

Just heating up hamburger soup that Mom made days before.

But the smell must have got to him.

The smell of nourishment.

Maybe it was cause I was standing by the stove,

Like his mother no doubt often did.

Maybe it was the desire for food and the fact that I appeared to be the bountiful goddess who would produce it.

I don’t know what it was.

But despite all my aloofness,

He came to me

And shot up his little arms,

eyes imploring.

It was like an automatic elevator.

Like he pushed the button,

And I couldn’t help it.

Even though he was germy

And even though he was not the happiest camper,

I couldn’t help it.

I picked him up.

And he snuggled in close.

Like he’d done with Mom

And with Dad.

And he said in his squeaky, congested three-year old voice,

“Auntie, you make good food.”

And what was I to do with this?

Rest.

Stop striving.

Be.

Just there.

Holding, being held.

No fear.

Rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Happy Birthday to Auntie!”

sang the three-year old with gusto on our last day at the cabin together.

He then proceeded to blow all his germy spit over my cake.

But I didn’t care anymore.

Water off a duck’s back.

I held him in my lap because I knew birthdays were his favourite.

Didn’t matter whose it was.

He always got this dreamy look.

Like he was made for moments like this.

Moments like this.

Holding the sick three-year old,

Close.