Back out through the genetic minefield

Poor Adam stepped on another last week. Cheryl picked him up from school and took him to the doctor because he’d been coughing a lot. The doctor gave a listen to his lungs and gave a look of surprise. “Wow,” she said, “you’d never guess just looking at him that he’s wheezing.”

As the doctor said these words he was doing his impression of a perpetual motion machine, with a big grin on his face that was reduced to a blur – unless your eyes could anticipate his next move. I can already tell he’s going to be much tougher than his dad when he grows up.

He got another nebulizer treatment, an updated prescription for albuterol, and a larger mask (for giving the albuterol to small children who aren’t quite ready to huff on a regular inhaler). Before they left the doctor told Cheryl to try and keep him calm that night… you know, to keep him from running around.

Hah! We might as well tell him to stop breathing (all right, not funny). It didn’t turn out too bad though. We sat down together (the boy and his goof of a dad) and read a couple books. Afterwards we moved on to the computer, and pictures I took that weekend. Even with a boat load of stimulants coursing through his veins, he was still content to sit back and relax with dad for a while.

When parents of older children speak wistfully of their kids’ younger years, I suspect they’re talking about these moments (rather than the preparation it gives you for a second career in the wonderful world of hazardous materials).

Give the gift of words.